My hand got used to fitting inside yours. I would slide my smaller hand into your larger one like it was meant for me to cling to. That was my space. Your skin was smooth and soft but badly bruised. You’d squeeze back when you were in pain, wincing with aches. Until you could no longer do so because your hand was so bloated and your arms were covered with gauze. Then I’d read the suffering on your face as your tears pooled and fell until the last one was shed.
Each time I took your hand, I’d lean over the hospital bed rail and look into your eyes. I’d tell you to breathe with me. You did. Deep breath in and out and out again. We breathed this way frequently through procedures until the machines did it for you.
I’d whisper into your ear that you were safe. I told you what the nurses did ahead of time to help your anxiety. I expressed to all that you hated when the medical tape was being peeled off. You were brave and breathed through it until you couldn’t.
I begged you to give your pain to me. I felt it was the least I could do. I don't mind the needles like you did. They were everywhere on your tired skin. Each time you told me you were dying, I didn’t believe it was possible until it was.
Hi, dad. It’s me, Kelly. I miss you. I’ve got Mom and Billy here with me. Go in peace to your Mommy. She will welcome you with love and light until we meet again.
