Time is such a weird thing.
Everyone has their own clock, but no one can really see or knows when the clock will stop for them. Some don’t even want to know when their clock will stop, happily living in ignorance as those around them watch their seconds fly by them.
I saw your clock everywhere I went; it was in my kitchen, in my psychology classroom, on your bedside table, on the white and lifeless walls of the ICU, and in the calm and inevitable room of the palliative care ward. The ticking was relentless, following me everywhere I went, reminding me how little time you had left on this earth and how little time I had left with you.
Your clock was a bit faulty. There were three times we thought it was going to stop before it actually did. Somehow and for some unknown reason, you gained more time on your clock. The seconds kept on going past but not as fast. I still had time. You still had time.
But time is such a weird thing, and often can be cruel. Whilst your clock gave you more time, it took away your ability to speak, or hold my hand. It took away the laughter that filled the room and the infectious joy that spread everywhere.
One day the clock I saw on those calm yellow walls had stopped, and the incessant ticking vanished into thin air.

Time is such a weird thing.
Time, which is known to be cruel, can also be kind. It has almost been a year since you ran out of time, and I have since learned that time is precious and that time also heals.
I know my clock will run out eventually, just as everyone does. And when the time is right, my clock will stop and bring us together again.
I also know that you would not want me wasting my precious time on meaningless things and not making an effort to go out and make a difference or find the joy in all the small things.
But please do forgive me, if I happen to waste a minute or two, just so I can remember you.