My father called a little after 9 pm. I had just returned home from class. It had been a long, numbing day.

"It's your uncle. He's bad. They don't…they don't think he'll make it through the night."

My family had already begun assembling at University Hospital in Denver, over sixty miles away. They were waiting for the imminent.

I should be with them, waiting. Waiting together. I looked out the window at the snow waving in the streetlight's ruddy glow. But I couldn't wait away, alone. Ten miles and thirty minutes later I couldn't see the road. My car was engulfed in a wave of white, and I was floating in space.I turned and headed home to wait alone.

Uncle Don didn't die that cold, February night. He's still waiting.