A Year Ago

A year ago I walked into your hospital room. I pulled up a chair near you for the last time. Always in control, this moment was no exception. Except there was a new intentionality to our meeting. Your need to direct and control had new grace behind it.

You were someone who could look me in the eye as I walked into the kitchen, and with a smile say, "I need to ignore you right now. I'll be upstairs on the computer." You'd leave the room and I would just know you were still there, even in the face of your direct rejection.

But this day, you were there. With passion. Attentiveness. Intentionality. You knew. I knew. We both pretended to focus on this photo. Perhaps you were focused on it. I was just trying to make the visit last as long as possible, while also avoiding your direct questioning.

You wanted to know how my husband was. Our marriage. Its future.
New life blooms, a year later.

You asked how I was taking care of myself. What I was doing. Goals. Hopes.
Growth comes slowly.

You ordered Dick out of the room. My sister came in and out. You and I sat huddled together. Nothing breezy or subtle about you.

Then you got tired and I saw you fading. I have never wanted to leave your side and this day was particularly hard. You walked us out to the lobby. From a distance you met EG for the only time. But in typical fashion a baby was no match for your attention towards the task at hand.

In our last embrace I felt every hug we had shared. You no longer had the hair I loved to comb, but you passionately, gently stroked mine instead. I can still feel your hands there, as the elevator ding-ed its arrival and departure behind us. At some point Dick joined us and the three of us stood together. Embracing all that was, and what was to come. In one last move you held a strand of my hair, told me how gorgeous I was, how much you loved me.

And then it had to end. We said good-bye.