She sleeps, there, curled up in the darkness, dreaming sweetly, inside a magical land.

I sit here, by the bed, trying to realize the magic of the moment, failing instead.

I wish, I could, peacefully sleep, like that, alive in the moment, a wish I dare not say outloud, for it would then not become true and instead, would wake her from that deep pleasure known as sleep.

I dreamt once, a long time ago, as a child, it was a day like any other, in that dream, my mother cooked, father sat at the table, reading the newspaper.

“War is approaching!” he said, crumpling the paper into a mess and throwing it to the floor.

“Do not read such things!” Mother said, pouring him a bowl of soup.

He ate and sighed.

Why I would dream of such a thing I do not know why, just a random dream, I guess, from those days of childhood.

Mother told me it meant nothing.

Father had died five years before I had told mother.

We both had a good cry and then laughed.

Why, I had no idea, the whole thing seemed funny at the time.

Now, here, even more years later, how I wish I could go back, to that time, just a simple moment, sitting at the same kitchen table, eating a bowl of mama’s soup and laughing about a random dream.

Sickness, it does consume, when it comes, you shall never know when it will come, but it comes for all, like death, except death is a relief, you’ll pray for it, when the time comes.

When death takes those in your life, you’ll curse it, call it horrible names.

“How could you God!?” you’ll scream into the heavens, even the atheists do it.

But when the time comes, you’ll embrace death, as a good friend, a lover almost, the greatest lover you’ll ever know.

Sickness is a bitch; the worse you’ll ever get to meet, she’ll come into your life, beat you to the point you’ll want to kill yourself, but by God’s grace and your inability to hurt the ones you love, you’ll keep living, one day at a time, but soon, you’ll utter that prayer, the one which begins — please death, take me from this misery, let me not wake to another day of pain…

Death will be an asshole though, it will not come too soon, it’ll tease you, whisper in your ear, tell you, “I’ll be there soon…” but it won’t, you’ll hear a knock at the door, a hint, maybe?

But it isn’t death; it’s just more sick, a cough, a spot on your lungs, a twist in your spine, more pain, more tests, more doctors smiling trying to keep you from blowing ydaour brains out!

But one day, you’ll pray, please death, do come, to carry me away from this pain, let me not wake another day, to this pain, to this disgrace. Deliver me into green pastures, where I may sleep, and dare say dream, of better places!

And here I sit, another night, sleepless, in pain, another night of dreamless awake, praying a prayer, utter in hope, before dying, maybe?


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