Keeping vigil over a dying man of 95.
Regretting the stories I never heard and marvelling at the years he’s been alive.
Eyes half open but we don’t know what he sees.
His labored breaths quiet as the medicine kicks in and I’m relieved.
I’ve never been here before and I don’t want to be.
I keep thinking about me and the future and if my life will be half as long or half as full and it scares me.
But this isn’t about me, it’s about him.
He’s so worn and thin.
And I never asked him questions I knew would hurt and now I’ve lost my chance to ever know.
But if I had the chance to, I doubt I would; now as I watch him go,
I can imagine the sad look on his face and I couldn’t put it there.
Even if all I know is her laugh and their daughter’s red hair.
Some memories don’t need to be shared.
I guess all that matters now is he knew I cared.


About wewerethesame

Pagan. Writer. Owner of cats. View all posts by wewerethesame

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