Forever

This is what I remember: those last few days before you could no longer respond. I would bathe you—remove the catheter, gently wash and cover you, change the linens, offer you water, a cough drop, and then eventually the lorazepam and morphine, hold your hands, sit by you and we would kiss. I'd kiss you all over, all over your precious body.

At one point you said to me repeatedly "you are so beautiful" and I teased you back saying what you often said to me "oh thank heavens for your eyesight". And I would kiss you again all over, all over your precious body.

And then repeatedly we repeated to each other the phrase our granddaughter Satori would say to us "I love you, love you, love you" but we both knew this would need to be forever.

At a point you no longer could say anything. But still, your body and your soul I loved and cared for knowing you knew that I would be there. I would make sure you were loved until your last breath, until you were borne into whatever comes next, "love you, love you, love you", I would repeat without your response.

Then your heart, I held you, cradling your chest, your firm stomach, your lungs, your heart. I held those last beats of your strong, loving heart. I counted those last breaths, unconsciously recorded the time of your death. How? I know not. But mimicking my birth date 3:30. A Sunday, like the day you were born with a heart on your sole, your soul in my heart.

That's when forever came to an end. 

And I miss you, miss you, miss you. forever. always. a googleplex.

As we always inscribed and promised each other.

And as I ask, please return to me. forever, always, a googleplex. I will love you, love you, love you.