I remember you were embarrassed but you let me help you anyway. You joked that you could be my mother and I joked that I could just pick you up but you wouldn’t let me you wanted to do yourself you said you could do it you said. Every day you were weaker as you disappeared into the bed around you but your spirit never did, I remember that. You said you could do it and I was right behind you, watching your legs flail under you and your white knuckles on those bars and you scared me half to death so when your legs crumpled and you fell in my arms we both laid on the cold tile and you said it’s okay I’m okay and you laughed but we cried anyway. You wrote me a note and I still have it on my wall and I think about you all the time so when I heard his cold voice in our lecture say the disease that riddled your bones, I thought of you and your note and how you’re always right there.

And then you, I can’t forget you even though I knew nothing about you except that you were from Wyoming. I remember that because they said that’s where your children where and that someone came into your house with a baseball bat and that’s why your skull is caved in like that so they flew you here and found a fungus growing in your brain and I didn’t even know that was possible but then again I didn’t know anything about you. They unplugged you and left you and no one ever came for you, your children never came but your breath held on and all the nurses kept waiting, waiting for the room for the next patient but you kept holding on and I was so nervous to be alone with you because I didn’t know what to say god please help me so I washed your skin and moisturized the cracks in your lips and you had a tattoo on your wrist and I don’t know what it was or what it meant to you but you had a childhood and stories, so many stories, and I know you heard me because your eyelashes moved. Can you hear me? Everyone is here. Your children are here and telling you they love you, they love you so much, we’re here, we’re all here and its okay now. When I left you, you stopped waiting. Because the nurse went in and you were gone and they rolled you to the basement but no one ever came for you.

But for the life of me, I can’t remember what brought you. I remember your mother telling me you were an angel and how you would spend your weekends pulling weeds and helping people move but for the life of me I can’t remember what shattered your skull like that. They said the clear fluid dripping from your nose was from your brain and it wasn’t going to stop and there was silence and I listened to it drip, drip, drip, because your skull was like a broken eggshell and they couldn’t piece it back together, can’t you see. And even though I looked away, her voice has stayed with me anyway because I could hear her heart was breaking as the hallways echoed she can’t lose you, she won’t lose you, why won’t you DO SOMETHING doctor, but we can’t fix you we can’t fix you. So they left and she looked at me but this time I couldn’t look away yes I’ll stay with you yes I’ll pray with you and we cried in the dark and in the morning I left and so did you. But when I got home I still smelled like you and the water was so hot but I couldn’t get rid of you. I’m right behind you I knew nothing about you they never came for you we’re all here for you I can’t lose you we can’t fix you so the water dripped, dripped, dripped.



I remember you.

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