You died in the wee hours of Sunday, February 24, 2019. I tried to stay awake, but the drive wore me out.
We sped through Tullahoma, past the cemetery, and into the steep drive of the home at about 1:30 in the morning. I wasn't sure what we'd find. For the last hundred miles, my mind had raced with scenes from our time in Kingston Springs. Brush fires and mini bikes. Barney Miller and fried okra instead of popcorn. The one that kept coming around were all the times you lay on my bed with me and, in the dark, we'd look up at the glow-in-the-dark stars and pretend we were on a hill somewhere. It was there that you would ask me my troubles, and I could tell them to you, and you would always listen. And when the sun came up again, I always felt a little better. That was a rare, special space, and it helped an insecure, sad boy than you'll ever know. By the time we hit Tennessee the stars had become snow again slicing the windshield. We were so close.
I heard the factory sound coming from your room as soon as I rounded the corner. I never thought I'd love that horrible sound. It meant you were still breathing. I smiled at your photo on the door, the one with you holding a box of Rice-a-Roni from the weekly auction in the lobby. You looked happy in that picture, sad, but happy. We snuck in the room slowly as if too fast would break everything. You looked so tired, Mom, and I just wanted you to rest. I wanted you to rest then wake up and tell me my hair looked awful like you always do. You never liked it when I started wearing my hair longer. I think it had to do with the song by Rod Stewart about growing up, or rather not. Little Michael had a bowl haircut.
When we saw your face, it was real. You were in a loud, cavernous sleep. The morphine and exhaustion saw to that. It was a giant's sleep. I carefully sat beside you and watched you snore like dad used to. I laughed, and then I didn't. I realized were struggling for air. For a minute or so your face and dad's switched back and forth. The exact same sounds. The worst kind of deja vu. After a while, Shelly decided to leave for the hotel 20 minutes away in Manchester, and I decided to stay. I knew I was lucky to have caught you still able to snore. I didn't want to push my luck.
It's here that it gets tricky. See, I leaned in and held your hand, and with only inches between us, we spoke. You listened patiently as I struggled to tell you everything you mean to me in under a minute. There's no way. And while there were no words, I heard you answer, and in that tiny, vast space between us, it felt beautiful. It felt complete.
Sleep well, Annie June Gause. Thank you for waiting, and thank you for doing it right. And should you ever need a reminder of our last time together, just close your eyes and picture the stars.
That should do it.
~
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