time

Original date 13 March 2011

I remember the last thing Brian said to me.  I said, "I love you, Brian," as I've said to him everyday since I first knew I loved him.

He is laying in bed, eyes closed. It's Tuesday.  The sun is out.  It's a nice day.  His mother is in the kitchen.  My sister and his sister are in the living room, talking.  I'm laying next to him, holding his hand, chatting about nothing in particular.  I remember saying that Jesus is waiting to take him home, and it's OK if he wants to go.  I'll be alright.

He wants to sit up, but can't muster the strength to do so.  I call for help, and my sisters come and help me prop him up with pillows.  His eyes never open, but he smiles.

I remember the last thing Brian said to me.  I said, "I love you, Brian," as I've said to him everyday since I first knew I loved him.  He says, "I know."

He had a seizure about an hour later...I never saw  my "Brian" again.  He will never look at me again. He will never whisper my name again.  He will never laugh at my silly jokes again.

For in my heart of hearts I know that he is home.  He is somewhere I can't follow.  He is dancing, he is singing, he is happy, and healthy, and whole.

Time does not heal.  It only teaches you how to live with the pain.