Ah Jesus, you always think, is there anything I could have done to prevent it, should have seen it coming a mile away. But you're never prepared for that moment, you're always left helping set back the rug, making the bed, trying not to cry along with her, and you think, could I have stopped this. But that's impossible because it's not in your hands, their hands, anyone's hands. Which is the beautiful part because it's like thread unraveling, a story unfolding. It's a big mystery and you romanticize it to pieces, to stop that big crack in your heart from getting any bigger. You numb up and wait, sheets to your chin, for

the end.


But before that comes, oh, you think of his question. "What would you do when I'm gone?" And you think of your response, a grin stupidly on your face and a goofy shrug and you hear yourself say, "Why do you ask me such a morbid question," when you know all he really wants to hear is, "I can't live without you. I need you," but you can't say it because you haven't been the type to say that. Not pride but insecurity because you don't know if he'll say it back when of course he would, he loves you. And you think back,

to when you're laying on the hard, musty floor, convulsing, your three-year-old brother next to you. "What would you do when I'm gone?" you ask. He's scared of course, he doesn't know if you're pretending. "I think I'm dying," you tell him, and you close your eyes and pretend to die. And he shakes you and starts to cry. You're waiting for him to say, "I can't live without you! I need you!" but he can't quite get that out, but you hear it in his sobs, so then you open your eyes and you reveal the joke, but it's not really a joke now that you think about it. That's some shitty thing to do,

but that's why you understand why he's asking you this question now.

You hug, not an awkward pat-pat, but a real encircling of your arms and for an instant you even feel his heart beating, and 'I love you' comes out and then, you hope and pray, it's finally

the end.
(but it's not)