“Don’t worry about it. I’m not scared,” I say airily. “Are you ever?” “All the time. Normally. All the time.”

“He’s gone, incinerated for all time. I am the ashes left behind, soaked with too many tears, and burdened with an infinite future I cannot see. Our life together is finished.”

“And, here’s what I know: I’m not drowning anymore. I can’t see my island; he’s gone forever from me now, but I’m standing on life’s shore again. I am here.”

“Me, all seeing. He, blind and unseeing, but, somehow, seeing it all so clearly. I envy him.”

“I’m fearless. This man can cure anything. I smile.”

“Well, maybe, you should. Because frankly, Brock, you’re being a jerk and you know it.” “I’m blind. Why can’t you people see that?”

“Grief is like cancer. It ebbs and flows within you. Then, it changes and transforms you. Forever. Grief. Cancer. Both force you to face your worst fear—death. Grief and cancer. Both undermine your optimism of life. You finally see the cup is really just half full, even if you believed otherwise your whole life. Both teach you to believe that bad things can happen to people, whether they’re good or bad or rich or poor or young or old, alike. Grief and cancer corner the market for all. Grief and cancer take all comers. Both rule. Do they always win? I begin to wonder.”