I.
I can remember the look on your face when you turned to me after arriving at the hospital. You offered to drive me in the afternoon after we both finished work throughout the day. It was supposed to be a typical day when we received the message about his biopsy. My dad wasn’t home, and I was left to my thoughts and the poor decisions I had made that summer.
I remember your words on the ride there as the silence consumed us like a vulture on roadkill.
“It feels like our childhood is dying.”
You were 28, and I was 25, and we were long past our childhood but still clung as if we would die without it. You hadn’t seen him since the week before, but I saw him the other day in his wheelchair, caring for his flowers. It was a typical day.
When we got to the third floor, I remembered the sign that glistened above us.
“Welcome to Hospice.”
I could see that we were still trying to cling to the fact that he would walk out of there and be at home; tomorrow would be a typical day. I remember the text my brother sent you that stung like a bee when you read it.
Reality had settled in. We both knew what he didn’t.
“I’m really excited to spend the summer with Pop.”
II.
The silence in the car pressured both of us to talk. We didn’t know what to say, but the silence ate us like a vulture gnawing on roadkill. It was supposed to be a typical day before the text about the biopsy.
“It feels like our childhood is dying.”
Arriving at the hospital, we clung to our childhood. We want nothing more than to keep what we have and not let go. You were 28, and I was 25, and we were long past. You showed me the text my brother sent you. Tomorrow was supposed to be a typical day. Reality had settled in for both of us.
“I’m really excited to spend the summer with Pop.”
III.
The silence was like a vulture gnawing on roadkill and spitting the unwanted.
“It feels like our childhood is dying.”
You were 28, and I was 25, and our childhood was gone before it even began.