I remember falling to my knees in the hospital and sobbing into your hand, “I don’t want you to die. I’m not ready for you to die.”
I had made fun of people earlier who had taken your Stage IV diagnosis for a death sentence and were already planning your legacy. But once they had all cleared out and it was just me and you and the darkness of the November sky, I collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
I remember walking a lot with you. I remember walking near the ocean, near mountains, in forests, in grocery stores, down the aisle.
I remember the feeling of your hand in mine. Big hands, rough hands, strong hands.
I want to forget…nothing.
You taught me not to regret my choices. That they all led me to the place I am now and that place, despite your absence, is beautiful. And fun. And funny. Ronan is trying to restring a play bow so Lighting McQueen can have a hang glider.
So, because you showed me how all your choices make you who you are, and that I should not be ashamed of who I am, I don’t want to forget anything.
I hate that I’m already forgetting things.