Sitting. Waiting. Hoping.

I sit by her bedside, sitting, waiting, hoping.
The walls, blankets, everything around me is white.
I look back at her. tubes coming out of her arms, her head hairless.
How did this happen? How could someone choose for something so horrible, to happen to someone so amazingly lovely.

I moved states for her. So she could get help.

The first time I made pasta. I was in grade 6, the age of 11.
She hadn't been too well that day. Dad had been at work. So I made her a bed on the couch, put bewitched on and began to make her pasta. She had said that was exactly what she had felt like.
I had to use the stove, I had never used it before. But I figured it out.
I felt so proud of myself, cooking pasta with no help at all.
I gave it to her, and she ate at least half of it.
It scared the hell out of me.
She lay there, looking so fragile. What else could I do?
Dad came home and took her to hospital. I stayed home and looked after my little brother, reassuring him that she would be home soon, despite my panic.

2 years later, she came home. Properly.

She had stayed every now and then, but she had always left again.

Sometimes, it felt like, she was a different person. My closest friend.
It was hard to no how to act.

I had to grow up fast during those two years. Someone had to.

You see the raw edges of everyone. You see grief. You see struggle. You see everything.

You hear doubts. You hear smashing. You hear noises.

But still you sit there, Sitting, Waiting, Hoping.









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