I remember the day that he first felt sick. I remember the crying, that we all did. I remember the day that the diagnosis came. I remember when he left us.
The coughing and wheezing grew louder as I walked down the hall. Opening the door, my heart sank. In the bed, looking worse than before, lay my brother. I reached for his hand, and it was cold as ice. Tears rolled down my cheek, and he started to cry too. I held him, without the need to talk, because we both knew what the other was thinking. I loved him so much, I couldn’t let him go. I knew that when the time came, he would go, but for now, we had each other.
We had done so much together, had so many memories. It can’t be over.
After more coughing and wheezing, he fell silent. I looked at him. He looked terrible, bloodshot eyes, sunken face, and almost lifeless. I knew he only had hours, no minutes to live. “I love you,” I whispered in his ear. That was the last thing he heard. He was at a better place.