We get back, the house is dark. Everyone turned in early, so we sneak upstairs and into our bedrooms. My wife is in one room with the boy, I'm in the connecting room.
The boy's out - always been a good sleeper. I line up my clothes for tomorrow and go to bed.
Since Sunday, my waking moments have been filled with me writing a eulogy I will never give. I'm back on the job tonight, but it just is too much. I go to pieces sometime around one and can't get it back together.
Afraid that my wife will hear, I turn it into a coughing fit. That I can suppress, and soon I can quiet down.
Sleep.
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