I'd Give Anything for You

At first, you can't believe this is happening. Then you start worrying about the future and what it's going to look like. And so you obsess about finances and wonder how you're going to pay for what's ahead. You start imagining yourself moving in with your kids or eating cat food. You knock on all the doors, put your affairs in some kind of order, and prepare yourself to live on what's left over. If anything. You've done all you can logically and legally do, and then what? You're a person who likes all the ducks to be in a row, but you can't find the ducks right now.

While you're caring for your loved one and organizing your future in your head, life is happening. Time is passing. You start to focus less on the future and more on the present. What will be, will be. Really, all you have is today.

Today, you're sitting next to him, holding hands, wondering if he even knows who you are. But you don't care about that, really. You have stopped thinking about yourself and what you will do, how you will cope. Who cares? What you care about now is being with the one you love while you can, while there's still the possibility of connection. No matter how fleeting.

You gaze at him like you did when you were young. You flirt with him. You play his favorite music and dance with him in his room at his new home. He can only sway to the music, but that's okay. You kiss him and tell him you love him, he's your one and only, your man, your true love. You run your fingers through his hair and touch his cheek tenderly, breathing him in, feeling the warmth of his body next to yours. You hold him a little tighter. And you realize that you would give anything...anything...to have him back again, healed and whole, to grow old together and enjoy your grandchildren and travel the world. To take one of those crazy vacations again that left you exhausted from driving thousands of miles in just a few days, only now you could take your time. Or even to just go camping in the woods like you used to do. And speaking of camping, you would gladly live in a tiny travel trailer in the middle of the desert if it meant you could be together as you had planned.

You are about to cry, but you don't. You don't want him to see you crying. You can wait until you're on your way home, alone in your car, to do that. You want him to see you smiling encouragingly, to recognize your presence as something he looks forward to, if he still looks forward to things. You want him to know your name. But if he doesn't know your name, you at least want him to think of you as that nice lady who comes to see him. You want him to smile back. And he still does, sometimes.