Fragile

I sat by his bedside as he clung to life by a thread.

His hands were cold and wrinkled.

His breaths were sporadic and long when he inhaled.

The silence in between gasps is what frightened me most. I looked over each time to make sure he was still alive for a moment more.

The tubes and machines connected to him were overwhelming.

I sat there in the chair which messed up my back from hours of being still.

I held his fragile hand in mine.

I would rub my thumb over his to let him know I was there.

I wanted so badly for him to squeeze my hand.

The hospital floor always reeked of a gut-wrenching lemon smell.

I would stare at the black screech marks on the white tiles until the nurse would come in for her hourly checkups.

She would check the IV, ensure the machines were reading properly, and told me for the 100th time that if I needed something, she would be right out front.

I knew she was doing her job, but I did not want to hear it anymore.

Sometimes I sat in silence and other times I left the tv on in the background for some noise distraction.

I barely ate, slept, or left the room to join the outside world.

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