Blessed

When I really think about it...
...I can still feel your frail hand as I held it in mine so many months ago. Sometimes I lie in bed at night, wishing you were still here to talk with me of the past, and the future.

I remember those days, those last days in the home, when you would smile from ear to ear when I entered the room. I remember listening to every word you said, every story you told, no matter how often I had heard it before. I remember hating myself for not being able to take care of you.

Do you remember? When I taped a piece of Velcro to your emergency button, so you could find it easier? When I helped you onto your workout machine—you determined to strengthen your legs, to fight it to the end? Do you remember when I placed the angel by your bed as I struggled to choke back my tears?

The last memory I have of you—a broken man in a wheel chair, tired from years of military work, howling like an old mutt after the family finished their singing, plowing through my birthday cake with a grin. I fear I will cling to that memory for years, wishing I had said more to you then. I certainly would've had I known it would be our last memory together.