All My Bags Are Packed, I'm Ready to Go

These are the things I think while caring for him after he's gone: How he would throw his notebook from the bed to the floor and wait patiently for me to pick it up and hand it back to him before he threw it again. and again and again. Endearing tenacity. How he would beat his hand to his heart, his way of saying i love you. Sweet and poignant. How just hours ago a trio of nurses sang Feliz Navidad, loudly and poorly, because that's the only song we know in Spanish and we wanted to make him happy. How he shooed us out of the room, reaching instead for dad. And how now he is cold and unmoving. I look at him, blurry through tears that have collected but refused to fall. The dusky shade of my purple nail polish nearly lost in the dusky purple of his skin. I laugh. I have to. Because if I don't laugh, I have no idea what kind of noises will come pouring out of me. I laugh until the tears come and streak down my cheeks. I write his name on a tag and place it on his toe. I tie his hands together across his abdomen. I tie his feet together at his ankles. We take him to the morgue and return to his empty room. I watch as his mother puts his belongings into a giant bag, one by one. His father pushes his empty wheelchair slowly down the hall toward the exit. The wheels squeak as they turn, the chair strangely and newly weightless. They have taken their time and collected everything, now must leave behind the only thing that matters. This is hard. Walking home the sun was shining and it was nicer than it's been in a long time. I know that has nothing to do with anything, I just think it's a nice way to remember the end.