Lying in my parents' bed with my father, my front to his back, arm over his shoulder as we talk. Quiet jokes and laughter, he hurts and I can feel it.

I ask him what he is doing today, and after a short pause, he says, "I had somethings I was going to do today but..." and this hesitation, this impending negation and admittance to depression that he never engages in, never lets it impact his life to it affects his productivity, "...I just don't feel like doing them."

It is hard.

It is hard watching this man be so depressed, so very hurt, his father, then his mother, now his sister that he was set to protect until the end of her days, they're all gone.

And he can't even work, he can't use his usual hiding place, burying himself in paperwork and duties, because he cannot focus. He is incapable of doing the work.

This is something so new and foreign to him, something that shows how this event hit him like a meteor. Something so unexpected, something so impacting.

We talk, lying in bed. I work on the knot in his shoulder, my thumbs kneading until they give way, switching to a driving elbow as he rolls it, releases the muscle.

He lies in bed with the fan circling above him, repetitive movements casting rhythmic shadows.

And then I go.