Last Hug

You never really think about it. Death, that is. You never notice how quickly it can come and take someone and you never notice who it's marked until they're gone.

When I hugged you that morning, that bright Saturday morning, I didn't think about it being the last time I would hug you. I've always hugged you goodbye. I hugged you goobye when you went to summer camp for the first time even though it was only a fourth of the mile up the road. I hugged you goobye when you went on your first camping trip in Virginia. I hugged you goodbye when you went to college. I hugged you goodbye when you headed back down to college after Christmas. I hugged you goobye at our older brother's graudation and then, for the last time, I hugged you goobye. You were going on a hunting trip to Georgia later that day, literally just hours after I left.

I never thought I would say goodbye to you or anyone in our family so soon. You had only been living for twenty years and in my mind, there was absoloutly no way you were going to die any time soon.

And then I hugged you goodbye for the last time and reality sunk in. No, reality didn't sink in. Sinking is a slow process in which is drips in, bit by bit, slowly bringing you to the realization. No, reality slapped my in the face, making me realize all at once that I would never get to hug you again. It punched me in the gut.

I still remember the way your hug felt. It was warm and safe, soothing and comforting. Promising. Protecting. It wasn't a long hug, the kind I like, but rather six seconds, quick but reassuring.

I hugged someone just a few days ago that was around the same build as you. Their hug was too tight and the others too loose. Not protective enough.Not warm enough, too tall or too short. Too built or too skinny. There is only one hug like yours and it's gone.

I wish I had realized I was hugging you for the last time. I would have hugged you for longer.