I could have given a better answer, I thought to myself just a while (longer than a moment, shorter than minutes) after having exited his room. I could have given a better answer. How many times we find ourselves thinking, feeling, living this — I could have given a better answer. Could – but didn’t. And to learn to live with this little regret – one that amounts to literally NOTHING in the Grand Scheme of Things; to painfully watch how it unfurls inside of you, then finds a way out, crawls on your skin until you are covered, completely, in its inglorious cobweb-y silver thread. You are itching. Continually. I could have given a better answer, and I must stop thinking about it.
“There is more and more I tell no one…”
There is more and more I tell no one. It kills me how I’m dying.
You came to see me two months ago and I have been missing you ever since. Every morning, as soon as I wake up, I make a prayer for you to be there and then I open my eyes. Slowly. Expectantly. But then you’re never here. Nobody is. And you know, that always makes me smile. Because hope never tires, does it?
(It’s embarrassing too, to think what I have become, but I cannot just help it. I am waiting for you to show up.)
The doctors told me yesterday I haven’t got much time remaining on my hands. I said to them, thank you. I thought they did this so I could develop an understanding of my case and accept what was going to happen to me. One of them sighed and came closer to my bed, put his hand on my forehead and gently asked me if there was someone I would like to call. Oh, now I get it, I remember thinking. They want to know if I’m truly that lonely or if there might be just someone out there who would take care of my funerary customs and claim their relation maybe. Could someone like me be just that alone? All alone?
Yes, I wanted to say. I would very much like to see him. I am yearning to see him. If his image could be my last image and his scent my last scent, I wouldn’t want anything else in the world to say I died happy. But I cannot die happy. You are not here and you won’t come even if I ask them to tell you everything; that I’m dying in a few days, that I’m sorry, terribly sorry; because that is what I deserve. I deserve this, I do. I have damaged a lot of lives. I cannot change things back. I am learning everything here in this room–this hospital room– but I think I’ve gotten too late for lessons this time. It’s of no use.
If they somehow still find you please be kind enough to bury me with your forgiveness.