departure
He’s not who I remember but someone I’ll never forget. His eyes meet mine. They’re fearless. He is ready to leave. I don’t want him to.
There’s so much to say it piles onto itself, folding and collapsing and stretching until it’s indecipherable. The words are stubborn, refusing release.
The warmth in his eyes betrays the chill of the metal bed and the steril hum of the room that surrounds us. His mouth shifts soundlessly. Instead, a tear spills from the corner of his left eye and he blinks.
Memories, pictures, laughter and voices vibrate in the silence. The mechanical ting of seemingly complex machines rings unnoticed. They’re overwhelming.
Choking, some words drop from my tongue, landing like marbles on the carpet. Immediately the room fills, blurring and warping. My cheek is wet.
He is ready to leave and has been for some time. I don’t want him to. I’m an insolent child. A tantrum tickles the back of my neck despite the inevitability.
I want him to stand next to me in my tuxedo. I want him to be there like he always has been. I want him to see me grow up but in his eyes I already have.
With a jolt the air thickens to a syrup. I lean in, awkwardly, hugging him as best I can. Words in a whisper and I stand. I stay there for a moment, tethered to the bed and to him before staggering through the door.
I’m outside, not feeling the crisp breeze or seeing the snow in dirty, melting drifts on the grass. My face is hot; my head is shrinking. I sit on the dusty green chair, watching the world spin—not just the present but the past and what’s to come.
I get back to my feet, walking slowly back inside. He is ready to leave. It’s not up to me.