How can you be gone? We just ate out together. You walked in without assistance. Yeah, I hovered but that’s me. You didn’t need me.

As you ate your sandwich and I a salad, you told me you were weary and lacked energy. Everything is harder, you said, but we shared a cookie, a little sugar should help, so how can you be gone?

That night you fell, if only Beth and I could have gotten you off the floor you’d still be here. I squatted in the shower and cradled your head but those damn EMS workers came and took you away. Where did you go?

We finally found you on a wide stretcher in the hallway in the ER. If they’d bandaged your arm and let you go instead of taking all those silly tests, you wouldn’t have cancer. I am sure of it.

How can you be gone? I saw you sleeping in that big bed in your living room. I slept nearby in your chair for two nights. Everytime I opened my eyes you were there. You left that night I slept on an air mattress at Dave’s. I should’ve stayed in your rickety recliner again. Why did you leave? I was coming back.

You can’t be gone because you were here. You’ve always been here. How can you just stop breathing? You started 98 years ago. You know how.

How can you be gone? The world is bleak, and my heart is desolate without you.