Sun rays beaming, sweat beads rolling down my face. Birds chirping. The red roses brighter with no thorns visible to the eye. The sky, a deep blue with no clouds obscuring the view of the plane flying overhead. She’s indoors, face, filled with flour as the leftover morsels of pancake batter sizzle on the hot griddle just as the horrific disease burns inside of her. Time ticks as her light becomes dim but the world would never know. Until we do. The light flickers for two years, longer than expected. But it goes dark. So again, sweat beads roll down my face but this time with a salty taste and are pouring out from my eyes. There are no sun rays or red roses. But thorns and thorns and thorns. No blue sky or green grass.