My child
I sat next to the child. Respirator on her face. Warm blanket to stop the temperature from dropping. Her dark hair and closed eyes. Whoosh. Whoosh. The machine breathed for her. I sat there for 13 days and watched her slip away into a world far away from me. It was time to say goodbye. I couldn't be there for the disconnect. I went to the chapel. It was quiet and serene. Unlike my soul. Unlike my life. I was about to say goodbye to my daughter. Try to imagine that. Try to imagine that countdown. In 15 minutes. 10 minutes. 5 minutes. 1 minute. It was time to go and say goodbye. I had to walk into that room where her daddy stood with the doctor. I saw her. Her eyes were closed and the mask was gone. I could see her face for the last time. I could say goodbye for the last time. I had to say goodbye for the last time.