The Last Conversation

Hey.

I think the word but nothing comes out. I look into the tired, glassy eyes that watch me move into the room and sit. We both know there’s no more words, nothing to discuss, or admit, or uncover. The time for words has passed. We are almost to the end.

Three weeks ago, I thought you’d live forever, but then you weren’t feeling well, and all of a sudden here we are. I’d thought I’d ask you about our family tree, the one I’d spent a year researching online but never got around to actually question you about. I’d thought I’d ask you a lot of things, but now they seem urgently important and you can’t answer them. I watch your chest rise and fall, quickly and with jerking motions, as if it's getting harder and harder to take a breath.

Your eyes are still on me as I settle into the chair near your bed. Your head rolls a bit to the side, giving you a better view, and I see emotions I’ve never seen before behind your dark eyes. I’d expect to see a bit of fear, that would be normal at this point. Most people are a bit fearful at the end, but that, I don’t see. I see strength, even though I know your body is so weak. It’s encouraging; for me, the one who isn’t lying in a bed dying, the one who isn’t in pain, isn’t at the end of a lifetime. A tear slips down the right side of my face and I ignore the instinct to brush it away quickly.

It is silent as I fight back more tears that threaten to follow the solitary one that escapes down into my shirt. Turn it off, turn it off. I don’t want to be weak in front of you. I see a glint of compassion as I look up and shudder, holding it in. I turn my attention to the hum of the machine you are hooked to, the lights flashing on the computer screen next to the bed. I listen to the sound of quiet voices beyond the room, discussing what the next few days will bring. Bringing my eyes back to you, I see a sheen on your forehead, the skin already looking plastic and bleached.

You seem to shift ever so slightly, and I jump up to help you, but maybe it was my imagination. I wrap my hand around your cold fingers. They are stiff, but I feel a flutter, like you are trying to grip mine. I look back in your direction, and stop, seeing something else beyond the pain and weariness.

Compassion.

You know it's not easy for me. It’s much easier for you to step into the next life, leaving me behind, than it will be for me, left with my questions and grief. I hiccup and lean in to hug your frail body. A body once so strong and vibrant, a body that once carried and birthed my father, a body that paved the way for my life to exist. I feel you sigh and no more.

I pull back to look into eyes that no longer have any emotion. It feels as if all the voices, and humming machines, even my breath, have stopped. You are gone, and I imagine someone else, on the other side, saying, hey.