I know, more than most, that I can't do anything to help him.
I see him pause outside Henry's room, peering in for some sense of comfort.
I hear the acceptance of pain in his voice.
I see the slope of his shoulders on bad days, and know what it means.
I know the fleeting nature of joy for him now.
I watch him try to avoid the mines hidden in every day experiences.
I hold him when he needs it.
I look for places to give him solace.
I hate what this has caused in him, what it continues to do to him. It's his life, he can't and wouldn't escape it if he could, but I so wish he didn't have to do this.
It hurts me so to see him hurting. And I know that reciprocally, my grief adds to his.
All we can seem to do is acknowledge one anothers' pain, and promise to keep going.