You were always the special one. "Coffee or tea?" "Coffee or tea?" I'd pick coffee on those nights I needed to stay up. I'd pick tea on those nights when I knew I needed to sleep. You'd make me peach sleepy time tea but I'd end up staying up late anyway and talking to you till late at night. You always said the most interesting things. I'd trade places with you faster than a neurotransmitter diffuses across a synapse. We'd still all be crying but your big, beautiful brain would still be whirring. You had such a huge and kind heart towards those you loved. So strong for them and protective. Never before have I felt so many possibilities stolen from me in one breath. In one lack of breath. You stole it from me in laughter over and over during life. I guess you stole it once more. When I walked into the emergency room, I should have known. Everyone was so quiet. I should have known. When Mom came out of your room crying, I should have known. I still don't know. It hit me once: When I fell to my knees in the pediatric center. It hit me twice: When I buried my face against your cold one and screamed. It hit me three times: When I stood at your death bed and held your hand. As I remembered all the times I'd grab your hand from across the couch and you'd let me keep it. It hit me four times: When I closed your eyes with my palm so I wouldn't have to see how glassy your eyes were. Not when they used to be so bright and beautiful. It hit me five times: When I had to enter the home you've vacated and I realized you'd never be there to greet me again. I still expect you to be here. I still expect for you to sit up from that bed and crack a morbid joke about winding up in a hospital. It still hits me. It always will because this doesn't seem real. I can say it over and over again: You were special. Oh so special. And the world is diminished without you to be in it.
You were ineffable.
