Writing is remembering. I want to write these words because in a few months things will start to get blurry. I will remember less and less but I know that I do not want to forget.

It was time, my sister told me.

I didn’t believe her. We’ve been here so many times before, and you always managed to pull through.

But when I saw you, I thought that maybe my sister was right after all. You were still with us, but your mind had drifted off. Perhaps you were thinking of better times. I hope so. Anywhere else but here

I begin my watch, recalling the start of our journey so many years ago.

You couldn’t breathe. Your face fast graying, but you insisted on driving. So pigheaded were you, so very much wishing to still be in control, that you drove the few meters from home to hospital. We barely made it, but it was just the beginning.

Once a year became every few months and near the end every few weeks, and the minute I received the call, I would pack an overnight bag, make my way to the hospital, and settle in.

You didn’t like hospital food, and I would often find myself going out, getting what you like. I still remember your first request when you gained consciousness after they placed a couple of titanium stents in your heart: liempo! I was happy to get you some, of course. I didn’t know any better.

I begin my watch, not quite knowing how this ends. You always managed to pull through, and I believed that you will this time too.

But you had become weak and pale. You had refused to eat, asking instead to be relieved from the pain.

I become obsessed with how much oxygen you were taking in and how fast your heart was beating. I comforted myself into thinking that I knew what I was supposed to be looking for, but in reality I had no clue.

I could hear your breathing belabored, phlegm blocking your airways, and my sister and I come up with a mad plan to procure a device to assist you, but it was too late.

I needed to pray. I needed to sleep. It was easy to slip off to Neverland, but only a few minutes later would my sister rouse me from sleep, shouting that you were probably gone.

I look at the monitor, so comforting had I become of it, and it was silent. I grab your wrist. I could not feel a thing, and then for one split second, I felt you once again, the last spurt of blood running through your veins, and then you were gone.

Gone.

Gone.

Once the wailing stopped, the reality of what needs to be done kicked in. We knew what we had to do, and it was done.

It’s been two months, and still you are gone.

You have to go through it, they tell me.

So I grieved for you where the sky met the sea.

I grieved for you where mind met sleep.

I grieved for you where thoughts met words.

It will get better, they tell me.

Yes, I think I am better.

Still, you are gone.

Still, I grieve.

This is how it is.