Strange what you think of when your mind falls apart. It’s a joke you used to tell me. You used to laugh a lot, but I can’t think why. A degenerative disease. Hence the wheelchair, I suppose. I never thought to ask.
You were alone, or so they said, when you died.
There should really be a song, or a poem, for what I’m feeling now. Crouching in a hospital corridor, my shirt stiff with old sweat, letting the tears drop into my useless palms. But there isn’t. So I’m left with my own thoughts. Trying to imagine how you must have felt. How the hell you got through it.
No wonder you made your life just the way you wanted it.
There’s quite a nice funeral, and I meet some people you knew. Sounds like you were a wonderful person.
I loved you, anyway. If that makes a difference.