Never Forget

He's dead.

I called this time. I called before they had a chance to call me. I wanted to check on him. I was with him earlier and I knew he was fading fast.

I rubbed his head and caressed his face. I talked to him, told him lots of stuff that’s now all jumbled in my head colliding with my emotions. BUT I know I told him I loved him. I rested my forehead against his and whispered goodbye over and over in his ear.

When I saw him last, he knew me. I held the straw to his lips as he drank water, I rubbed his head and he smiled and said it felt good. I told him I’d see him tomorrow before I left and he asked me “what time tomorrow?”

That was the last time he spoke to me, the last time he ever opened his eyes.

I want to call someone and say “he's dead,” but there’s no one to call. I feel the loss, but I’m not sure how that transcends to my life outside of the hospice. It's a juggling act that I haven't mastered yet and probably never will.

I wish I could write something that would do justice to his death, but it's all too much. Or, maybe, not enough.