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Missing You

I think about you from my hospital room.

It is strange to sleep here—without you nearby. Without the comfort of your breathing. Amid the whimpers of a stranger next door.

I have had a full life. And I am tired. I rest my head, grateful for the soft quilt beneath me. It still smells of you, momma. My mind wanders and I imagine that you are still here by my side. I feel the warmth of your body. The safety of your presence.

You were curiously quiet today. I saw you hide your tears to give me strength. It’s okay to cry. Today was our last walk to the waterfall, wasn’t it? It has been ages since I had the strength. Funny, how the day progressed.

As I give in to slumber, I imagine your kiss on my forehead. I hear the tenderness of your voice. “I love you ‘till the ends of the earth,” you say in my dream. I can see you in my gaze, momma. My greying muzzle rests happily in your hand—and all the world knows just how much it is that you love me.

You are part of me now. How lucky I was to have found you. To have loved you, and to be so loved.

When the rain kisses your face, momma. Remember. It will be me. Just me—missing you.

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