On the eve of your 60th birthday



When only half your face looked up to greet the whole of my voice as I pleaded with you to hold tight until the paramedics arrived, I thought I knew. While we waited like dogs desperate in the E.R. and you feverishly grasped at Cary and I to hug us for the last time, I thought you knew. I never felt as heartbroken, helpless, or hopeless in all my life as I did in that room. And now, I can’t even think about it and breathe at the same time, so I don’t. I can’t hold to the thought of you suffering in that hospital bed. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone, but it feels like that precious fact is utterly useless to us now. Even worse, it may prove a liability. I feel a part of me leaving with you, but I am unsure how much of us, or what will remain, or what will take its place. I am sad, I feel uncertain. I hide under our green blanket, I cry alone in the shower. I feel beatable, though I am not allowed to, I still worship you. I adore you.




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