The Worst Part

The worst part isn’t having been at your side at the end. It wasn’t seeing how scared and confused you were, or watching you shiver in pain. It wasn’t having to nod my head when they told me there was nothing they could do, and that there was only one thing left that I could do you for you.

The worst part wasn’t having to lie to you between sobs and tell you it was going to be okay as I held your head and stroked your back. It wasn’t when I watched the light leave your eyes, and felt your pulse fall still under my hand or knowing that you were cooling beneath my fingers.

The worst part is home.

The worst part is you not running ecstatically to greet when I get there, it’s you not begging to come with me when I leave; it’s me remembering every time I cook that I made that extra little portion for no reason. It’s rolling over and waking up in the morning and knowing you’ve heard me and are about to come sneak into the bed, and remembering that you didn’t, and you won’t.

The worst part is seeing you, just for a moment out of the corner of my eye, almost everywhere, and it being perfectly normal, until the double take reveals the cruel joke, and I have to see it all again.