“Last Day”

Pen and paper





When I sat down on my bed
that day, I said I simply wanted
to rest because I felt so weary.
I didn’t want to let you know
or ask you to come and to
hurry because I didn’t want
you to worry. I felt tremendously
weak; my arms and legs wouldn’t
cooperate and I didn’t want them
to carry or bring me anywhere. I
didn’t know it was my last view of
my room, my last view of the sun
light, my last view of your mom,
the last time I’d hear her voice
and talk to her, the last time I’d
see our house, the last time I’d sit
in my chair, use my table, eat in
our dining table, command and
guide our family, remind all of you
of what you need to do, and ask you
questions. You will remember that
last day when I last saw you that
when you arrived home, I immediately
got up from my slumber to ask
where Tommy was, and you told me
he’s inside the car in the driveway,
and with legs a bit unsteady I
went outside and peaked through
the car’s windows. The little baby was
there on his mommy’s lap looking
straight at me so I opened the door
to touch his arms and cheeks. I love
the little boy so much and I couldn’t
get enough of him. Tommy, I called
his name every day and sang him
my silly songs and promised him
that we will travel to many places
together, if only he will hurry up and
grow. I didn’t know it was the last
time I’d see his face and hear his voice.
I didn’t know it was the last time I’d
carry and kiss him. I miss him, and I
miss your mom and your brother, and
I miss you, too.


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