Gone

I had always hated white walls. They were so drab, so dull. I couldn't stand being in a room without any stimulation. He had remembered that. So my plain hospital room had been transformed: colorful pictures adorned the walls and every flat surface was home to at least one vase of bright, fresh flowers. That was kind of him.

I couldn't remember the event had landed me in St. Joseph's. All that remained in my memory was an image of myself in the passenger seat of a little teal Civic, watching the buildings pass by as we made a left turn on the road towards home. The next thing I knew, I awoke in a hospital bed, with him beside me, holding onto my hand.

I kept trying to ask him, why am I here? But my lips could not even move to allow in nourishment, let alone form words. I only once tried to move. I wanted to squeeze his hand, let him know I felt his warmth, but the pain was too much to bear. My heart rate had quickly accelerated, and the nurse came in to give me more morphine. I blacked out, no doubt still in shock from the accident.

Every day, he was there to care for me. He helped bathe me, and soothed me in any way that he could. Often times he just spoke to me, words of comfort and reassurance. His voice was much sweeter than the sounds that came from all the machines I was hooked up to, especially the heart monitor. I hated the harsh beeping sound it made. I knew I had a heartbeat, why was there an annoying sound that had to accompany it?

His presence took much of the fear out of the experience. He'd stroke his thumb over the back of my hand as he spoke. I truly think it soothed him as much as it did me. And every night, before he'd curl up to sleep in his chair, he'd kiss my forehead. "Remember, darling, I love you," he would whisper in the dark, "I hope that is enough to bring you back to me." I wanted so much to say it back to him, to tell him how much I loved him. But that would never be the case.

One day, he finally told me what had happened to me. I had been waiting, for so long it seemed, to understand why I was there and why I couldn't communicate with him anymore. I knew it would bring me relief to finally know.

That night in my memory, we had been driving home from a friend's New Year's party. It was only ten o' clock, but we both wanted to be home before midnight to celebrate on our own. He'd decided to drive, because I hadn't been feeling well that night. He'd always been kind like that.

When we were making that left turn I remembered so well, a drunk driver had run a red light and smashed into the passenger side of the car. The doctors told him that I was lucky to have even been breathing after such an impact. Lucky to be somewhat alive, but not lucky enough to ever hope to regain any normal function.

As he told me that tale, fresh tears fell onto my hand. I knew how desperately he wanted to believe that I'd come through. We were to be wed that May. I wondered if it was May or even past that, but I could not ask. I could not ask, nor could I tell him that it would be wise to let the doctors cut the power that kept me in this world.

He had always known that I didn't want to be kept alive by machines. "Yes, miracles can happen," I had told him once, "but if there is little chance I shall return, be kind to me and let me go. I'll still know you love me. Letting me be free of any pain I might be in, even though you are desperate to keep me, will be the greatest act of kindness and love you can ever show me."

One evening, as the light began to fade from the sky, I saw a strange figure by the foot of my bed. At first, I was frightened by his appearance, for he had made no sound as he'd entered the room. But as he came closer to me, I noticed that he almost glided over the waxed linoleum floor. It was then that I knew why he had come.

His long black robes whispered softly as he approached my side. His skin was pale white with a gray tinge to it, and his hair reminded me of corn silk. He moved very slowly, as if to give me a chance to take in what was happening. It was almost hypnotic, watching him with his stare fixed upon me.

He had a job to do. And he knew how to do it well.

First, he gently stroked my face, as if to let me know I should not fear him. Then he leaned in over me, his sweet breath tickling my nose. I looked deeply into his eyes then, trying to decipher the familiarity I felt when I gazed upon them. So beautiful a blue they were, almost like the ocean…

I knew those eyes well. They belonged to my love, the one beside me, still stroking my hand. How could it be? How could this stranger hold his eyes captive in that foreign face? I wanted it to be my love's face I saw, not his.

But in my heart, I knew that was impossible. The only comfort the stranger could give me were those eyes. It was my chance to say goodbye.

I felt cold lips upon my own. And suddenly, I was shot through a whirlwind of sights and sounds and smells. I could feel the rain on my face and taste it on my tongue. I could hear it hit the ground and smell it dampen the earth. I could hear my mother singing me a lullaby and feel her rocking me to sleep. I could hear my father laugh as I pushed my first slice of cake all over my face, mostly missing my mouth. I could feel the warmth of my love's skin as he held me close for our first kiss, and I could see him on one knee with the ring I'd never expected.

I was also filled with a sense of knowing. I finally knew that I had lived a good life. I knew that I had been loved. I knew all about the gross injustices of the world. I knew how to ease all the suffering of mankind. I knew how to maintain the beauty of the earth. I knew of all the promises the world had to offer. I knew the meaning of life, and I knew what it meant to have lived.

The rushing stopped, and I finally moved. After being kept in one position for so long, it felt so good to stretch my limbs. I was cold, but not uncomfortably so. The strange man- whom so many call the Grim Reaper, or simply Death- held out his hand to lead me from that world and into the next. Before I grasped it, I took one last look at my love. He was weeping, still holding onto my hand.

He knew I was gone.