It's 12:01 am.

I'm laying in bed backwards, and I finally know what "feeling" means.
Flashbacks stampede and crush me. In the car. Singing. Coffee. No left turns. Cut through a parking lot. Dog in the back seat. It happened. Why didn't I care then?
The memories, they come in with the tears. Somehow, I've accidentally developed the habit of pulling my hair out. Sick, right? Sick. Cancer. Can. Cer. Intimidating. Not really. Forever, I've heard about it. It's ever-present.
"Maybe someday one of you will grow up and become a doctor and discover a cure for cancer."
"Age seven, and he's beating cancer."
Oh yeah, Cancer. That things they have on Grey's Anatomy. That thing they make lemonade stands for. That thing that killed Audrey Hepburn and Patrick Swayze, and is now killing her. That Cancer. The cancer that Andrew McMahon and Rick Payne defeated. It's puzzling. Cancer. I'm a cancer. Astrology. Being born on July 17th makes me a cancer. What the hell? Stop, Lex.
Another one. A phone call. She's happy. Lots to say. Both of us. Christmastime. All I wanted was for her to stop talking. What kind of grand-daughter am I? Now every word she speaks, I catalog into the pits of my heart. The "Her Last Words" file. The thing is, they don't tell me stuff. Nothing, really. So maybe she's not dying. Maybe she's going home soon. Maybe I'm being negative. Maybe. Maybe we'll beat this. Maybe nothing grey can stay.