Good

I feel sick.

I used to tell everyone I love how smarter she is than me but how can she be so intellectually deprived as to think she disgusts me? I could see her with a bloody knife in her hand, with her eyes as red as the devil, and I would still wonder when fate irrevocably twisted so much, and let me have the ever-lovely pleasure of waking up every morning and seeing the face of an angel, in the place of some painfully irrelevant paper that would tell the stories of the day. 

I feel like I could throw up anytime I think of crawling through life without her. What would be the point? Why would I wake up if I couldn’t wake up to her rushing to get her shoes on? Why would I have arguments if not with her? Why would I make new memories if I can’t remember the ones I have with her?

I don’t know if she feels the same way however. When she perches on the windowsill in contemplation of existence, does she imagine a sweet release from the pain she chronically endures, or does she selflessly try to hold onto life, because she is fully aware that me living gracefully without her, is as impossible as me going through life with her?

I see the clumps of hair on the floor, and my reckless mind transports me to that hospital room. I wasn't there, I said I was busy and she said she was fine alone. But I can imagine. I can imagine the taste of tears in the room whenever you open your mouth and I can imagine the hope of some miracle coming through running away with the flow of water. I can imagine the smell of medicine the whole way home. I can imagine the silence while you realise if there's anything you want to say, you had better say it now. I can imagine all the problems that you had before fading away into a bundle of useless worries. And I can imagine feeling like if you had prayed more, been more pious and courteous then this wouldn't be happening. But most of all, I hate how all I can do is imagine. How there are so many memories I don't have with her that I can only dream of. And I hate that when she leaves, I'll have to pretend she was a learning experience, a dot in time, and that when my memory stabs me in the back, I may not have anything to imagine at all.

She sits outside more now - she sits with the ache of a million ancestors. She has taken all their pain. She has kept her time free and her space empty. She holds the leaves in the garden, she observes them, she measures them, trying to get a final imprint in her mind. She tries so hard to etch all the beautiful things she loves into her soul, I know she does. I know her, sometimes even more than I know myself. I question myself but never her. The image of her in my head is full and complete yet I can't have her leave. I must know more, so much more. I need to know just how wrinkled her fingers get coming out of the shower. I need to know when she drifts off and away from me at night. I need to know how many dreams she remembers and I want her to explain them to be in excruciating detail.

I see the lifelessness around her eyes. How did this happen to the person who taught me how to live? She walks from one place to another as if she is tired from carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders (which would be understandable to me). She refuses my help, she waves me away before I can get close enough. She spoke one word to me yesterday and my face lit the room up. I hadn't heard her voice in what might as well have been an eternity. I'd listened with the enthusiasm and awe of a child, gaping, she had made time for me, spared some energy to respond to my question and suddenly I couldn't remember any other ambitions I had.

I notice everything more: I notice that I can't even stomach being someone without her. I notice that when she looks away, my eyes burn with the fire of a thousand suns. I notice that I haven't seen the wrinkles around her eyes in a long, long time. Most importantly, I take notice of the relentless conclusion that one of these hope-shredding moments will be the last.

I don't believe in a God, nor a heaven but I keep telling myself that heaven is palpable and real, and if I am good enough, then I will see her there someday. She will be there, reading with her head low, all alone, with enough goodness that angels will sit at her feet and ask her how she lives like this. Perhaps she will spare me a thought once in a while and maybe, just maybe, I will twist my soul into something of good nature, enough that I will be able to see her there again. She will run around, holding my hand, lighting up my world with that torch of a smile.

I will be good, I will be absolutely commendable. I will pick up after myself and bring smiles upon the faces of the depressed. I will make everyone I ever make contact with feel an ethereal sense of glory and fulfilment almost as remarkable as the one she made me feel. I will not bring in pity from others, I will make it seem as though I am tough and have found my peace and when I make it to the place of eternal light, I will fall to my knees from exhaustion and I will not have to move an inch, God will know heaven for me is her presence and I will see her then if not now. I will see her then for an eternity. I will see her then and I will not look away. I will see her then.