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.

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