Bedside Manner

Daddy, I don't know why I'm talking to you right now, I keep forgetting you can't hear me. Your hand feels warm, and I'm trying to figure out if you're hot or I'm cold (I'm probably cold, don't you think, Dad? You like to tell me I have bad circulation). I've been watching your chest swell up and deflate, swell up and deflate, you breathe waves across your torso. And at every crest your heart beats twice, and twice on every fall, twice when your lungs are empty, and on the swell. I catch myself following the pattern (I catch myself following the IV buttons, up and down, dripping once for each pulse).

Daddy, the nurses have stopped dropping by, I guess that means you're okay. I still feel shy when I trace the veins in your hand or rest my head on your abdomen to take a break from, watching your eyes stay shut. It's peaceful enough, but won't death be the same way? I feel like blinking is a risk, in case you wake up while my eyes are closed and think I was sleeping. Dad, I've been awake since you went down this morning, waiting until they'd let me in to wait until you come back around, watching for you to wake up and be old for the first time (watch you watch your IV buttons and see if you recognize your own body or just see the waves of strange muscles weighing you down).

When did it happen, Daddy? I remember how fast you could stand up, making mountains seem ridiculous far staying in one place. I remember stifling sharpness in your stare. Remember running my hand from your collar bone to your pectoral, not having to avoid your scars. Your hair, I feel asleep to the smell.

But your heart still beats the same way, and you've always breathed with measure. Your face will look familiar to you, with lines beneath the eyes, for all your children to remind themselves you're soft. You're still Dad, Daddy, maybe more so. And I feel silly being the one who's afraid I'm forgetting - but your hand is telling me I missed something - shit, Daddy, I closed my eyes and you woke up and saw me sleeping, Daddy - "Daddy, I -"

"Marco..."

Same voice. Same nose, same face. Same smile.

"Gur-" Same- "arararara!" Same laugh.

I don't have to forget the important things.