I Want To BreatheWhen he came home that night, tittering about exaggeration with a partial stutter in his voice, I knew he wouldn't make it past six months. What I didn't know is how he'd prove me wrong and live two more years. Hope left mile-long stories on his face, and every time he got a new test result back he made me wish for one more day.It was three-forty eight when I watched them roll his half full-of-life body into the ambulance, the wheels groaning with each shift in the concrete terrain. I botched my small steps and ended up tripping over every word he mumbled. Even with heavy anesthesia from earlier that morning, he still managed bisected jokes that made me smile.I tried not to picture the ambulance racing down overcast streets or hear the fake it's going to be okay voices from the EMTs. He squeezed my arm and I remembered the first hospital run, the first of countless trips."You can't die on me."I wanted to press my hands into him and carve out the disease as if he was on an
Secret GardenI slipped into her secret gardenand felt the warm doze of beessettle scarlet in begoniasand heard the tulips brushtheir lazy petals against airgone breezy with Apriland the taste of sun ramblingso lost and pale across the sky.I heard leaves breathe slowtaking their time to awakenand find the trees stretchedand laughing overheadand smelled wisteriadamp against her cheek,bringing summer to her skinlike tiny sparrows.And I watched her handsbreak the new earth with prayersand span the morningjeweled with dew and roses,her face blooming rareand glowing on the grass.