I remember the last time I spoke to you. It was only 4 months ago, the week before the last week of school. I was wearing my light denim shorts and my black Mr. Zog’s hoodie. My hair was down, long, thick and straight with some waves in it. You were wearing, what else, a hospital gown and your signature gold bracelet. The same bracelet your son now wears on special occasions and nowhere else, in fear it might get broken. You were a little slow because of the less-than-normal amount of oxygen and I could tell you were very tired although you were still cracking jokes like always. I was appointed the task of making sure you didn’t bend your arm, or else a screen with graphs none of us understood would beep incessantly. I was quiet and calm on the surface, but on the inside I was involuntarily thinking what I would do if the worst possible thing happened: if you didn’t make it through surgery. But that was no surprise; I was overthinking things, a trait my brother often gets annoyed by. The rational part of my brain was telling me to chill out; everything was going to be fine. I tried to listen, to stop the tears forming in my eyes. I’ve never been a crier, especially not in front of other people, and luckily that day was no different. You kept asking us if we thought you were going to be okay, and we all truthfully said yes. You’re a Frank, the best there is and ever has been, and you were where I got my stubbornness from so of course you were going to be okay. The operation was incredibly simple and you were getting transferred to the hospital at VCU, where the best heart surgeon on the East Coast is. He would know what to do, no problem. Plus, you were way too young to die. You were like 15 years away from being in the danger zone. Still, the worrying part of me crept back up. I started thinking the worst again. What if you wouldn’t be at my wedding? When I got my first car? I couldn’t wait to leave. I’ve always hated hospitals, there’s just something so creepy about them. We all hugged you and told you we loved you, and that we would see you in a couple weeks.

When I got home, everything was back to normal, and I quit being so dramatic. We all knew you were going to be fine, but that little part of me was still overthinking things. Little did I know that part of me was right all along, and now I will always regret how quiet I was the last time I spoke to you.