You probably
died a few miles back.
This was the last day I'll ever be really
alive. You took too
big of a piece of me up to
heaven with you. Looking back over the
bucket seat, your little shell glows with
Cerenkov light in the
desert night. I
paw at my face to move the
damned tears away and floor the
car. I'll finish the journey for
you.
Rose was a kid who drew a
bad hand but played anyway. All the nurses said that they couldn't understand how she smiled beneath the
IV hoses and blistering
florescent lights.
Losing your hair was the funniest
joke in the world to you. It
broke my heart like a
hammer on ice.
White coats flowed in and out of our lives,
morbid estimates and
arcane procedures that you never really understood. You called it your "
monster" and you soldiered on.
The monster started to
win a few months ago. Even you couldn't fight forever. The cracks in the little girl
facade were showing, and the
circles under your eyes got as
black as the ocean. Dying never looked more beautiful, or as
sad.
The last day started when you finally
cried. You woke up early, pale and piteous. Weary and thin. When you saw me sleeping in the chair, you
toted that
silver tree of poison across the cold gray tile and crawled into my
arms. The tears on my cheek and the soft
shudder of your silent
surrender woke me up.
I'm dying.
I know.
We have to leave.
I know.
I love you.
I know.
The pain took you back under and I took you away. You always loved the
desert. It was
twilight when we passed out of the city. Under my jacket and curled up like a
baby, I drove you out into the
dead lands.
Red sand and
turquoise.
You died with that
little smile on your face.
I died when I saw the sun
rise.