It didn't hurt that much when you left. Sounds strange right?
That moment, the kind that makes regular people cringe, cry, scream and fear.
It had no impact on me. Maybe because I felt the impact when we met.
Maybe because I knew deep down that something like this would happen.
Maybe I'm just emotionless, like you said.
Or maybe the pain is too great that its caused me to feel numb.
But none of that matters now.
What matters is that you're gone.
Remember when adults would tell us not to take life for granted?
I should've listened.
I visited you today. You seemed so calm and peaceful.
Your chest rose and fell steadily with every breath you took.
The doctor said it is a good sign. No, not that Doctor. Ha.
You would've laughed at that.
You're never awake when I come.
The only assurance I have of you ever waking up comes from the doctor.
Maybe that's the way it should be.
I don't think I'll be able to handle it.
They say you won't be able to remember me.
Chances are you never will.
People always say “you don't know what you've got until its gone”.
You've been in the hospital for more than two weeks now.
They say you're improving at a steady rate and should be out before the end of this month.
I've been visiting you since the beginning of your stay. You just don't know it.
I don't get off work until 7 and it takes me forty-five minutes to visit you.
But I'll still come. It's almost a routine now. The nurses know me by name.
Sometimes they even bring me something from the vending machines.
They have kind hearts.
I saw you smile in your sleep.
It brought back memories.
Your smile could light up anybodies day.
Sometimes I hope, I wish, that when you smile, it's because you remember.