A piece taken from my book.
Sitting by his bed, his respirator like a song of life. I found a beat with every group of noises, found a note in any lasting hum. His respirator seemed oddly slow for the life it was holding onto. I tried to breathe as slow, in and out, such long breaths. I wondered if he could ever breathe this well in real life, when he was alive. When he could make faces, play guitar, shuffle along in his slippers. I wondered if he heard the rhythmic tempo of his respirator, his life support machine keeping him in perfect time. I found the tempo soothing, as if being rocked to sleep in a warm train. I fought to stay awake.
My father’s hospital room faded away and I saw my grandparents house at night-time; all the stars in the heavens so beautiful. I look up and wonder if they are even…
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