And not the words of one who kneels

My uncle is dying. He's got tubes coming in and out of every orifice and the cancer's that attacked his lungs is now eating away at his bowels. But he's strong and stubborn and not ready to give up.

He doesn't speak a lot now, except for 'ow!' and wacky, childlike comments on his basic needs and functions. He says he farts in the name of Jesus. It's the morpine talking.

I hold his hand as he sings to me, 'bella Carolina' and says he wants to be buried with his sister, my mum. Not sure how his wife, standing behind me, feels about that.

He says I'm his favourite and everything he owns is mine. I see the funny where there is none. He owns nothing.

I leave even if he asks me to stay, because I can't take much more of this. He speaks English when he says he loves me. But we are too alike and all my life I could never love him back.

Ashamed, I say love him too, in Dutch.