Doesn't matter that I was curled up like a fist protesting death, or that every breath was either hard labour or hard time, or that I'm either always too hot or too cold.
Doesn't matter because my hospital roommate wears Star Wars pajamas, and he's nine years old. His name is Louis, and I don't have to ask what he's got. The bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes. The Gameboy and the feather pillow boom like they are trying to make him feel at home 'cause he's going to be here a while. A man who just smiled the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I've ever told.
So I hold my breath because I'm thinking 'any minute now, he's going to call me on it'.
I hold my breath because I'm scared of a 57 pound boy whose hooked up to a machine because he's been watching me and maybe I have him pegged all wrong like maybe hes bionic or some shit. So I look away, like I just made eye contact with a gang member whose got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he's going to give me my life back the moment I've got something to trade, I damn near pull out my pack and say 'cigarette?'.
My fear subsides the moment I realize, Louis, is all show and tell.
He's got everything from a shotgun shell to a crows foot and he can put the all in context, like 'see, this is from a shooting range', and 'see this is from a weird girl'.
I watch his hands curl around a cuff link and a tie tack and I realize that every knickknack is a treasure and every treasure's got a story, and every time I think I can't handle more he hits me with another story, he says ' see this is from my father', 'see this is from my brother' ' see this is from that weird girl', 'see this is from my mother'.
Took me about two days to figure out that weird girl, is his sister.
Took him about two hours the day after she left to figure out he missed her. They visit everyday and stay well past visiting hours, because for them, that term doesn't apply. But when they do leave, Louis and I are left alone and he says 'The worst part about being sick, is you get all the free ice cream you ask for. The worst part about that is realizing there is nothing more they can do for you". He says 'ice cream can't make everything okay".
And there is no easy way of asking, and I know what he's going to say but maybe he just needs to say it, so I ask him anyway, 'are you scared?". Louis doesn't even lower his voice when he says 'Fuck yeah".
I listen to a nine year old boy say the word fuck like it was a thirty year old man with a nosebleed being lowered into a shark tank, hes got a right to it. And if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, then I want to teach him to swear like the devil sittin' there takin' notes with a pen and a pad, but before I can forget that Louis is nine years old he says 'please don't tell my dad".
He asks me if I believe in angels. And before I realize I don't have the heart to tell him I tell him ' not lately'. And I just lie there waiting for him to hate me but he doesn't know how to so he never does. Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before god gave religion to man and left it to them to figure out what hate was.
He never greets me with silence, only smiles and a patience I've never seen in someone who knows their dying. And I'm trying so hard not to remind him that I'll be out of here in a couple days smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted.
And he'll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow, I've been with him five days and all I really know is, Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow and watch them float to the ground. Almost as if he's the philosopher inside the scientist ready to say 'its gravity that's been getting us down'.
But the truth is, there's not enough miracles to go around kid. And there's too many people petitioning god for the winning lotto ticket, and for every answered prayer there's a cricket with arthritis, and the only reason we can't find answers is the search party didn't invite us.
And Louis, right now, the crickets have arthritis.
So there's no fiddles, no music, no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if we could bend halos into melodies that could keep rhythm with the way our hearts beat.
So we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying nine year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven.
We must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations, then let our lives echo, and grow echo, and grow echo, and grow distant. Grow distant enough to know, as far as our efforts go, we don't always get a reply.
But I swear to whatever god I find in the time I have left, I'm going to remember you, kid.
I'm going to tell your story as often as every story you told me, and every time I tell it I'll say 'see, there's bravery in this world".
The 6.5 billion people in the world curled up like fists protesting death. But every breath we breathe has to be given back, a nine year old boy taught me that. So hold your breath.
The same way you would hold a pen when writing thank you letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold. Then let it go, as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back. Let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good sex, the black eye will be worth it.
Cause what is your night worth without a story to tell. And why wield a word like worth if you've got nothing to sell.
People drop pennies down a wishing well as if the cost of desire is equal to that of a thought, but if you've got expectations, expect that others will have bought your exact same dream for the price of the hard work, hang in, hold on mentality, like ' I accept and challenge so challenge me".
Like I brought a knife to this gun fight, the other night I mugged a mountain, so bring that shit, I've had practice. Louis and I cracked this world wide open, found the prize inside, because we've never lied to ourselves. Never told ourselves it would be easy or undemanding. Never dreamt of anyone handing us anything so we sing in our own vibration, and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop mid flight, to pluck feathers from their wings, and write demands that gods hands take the time to catch you.
So even if god doesn't, it wasn't because we didn't try. I don't often believe in Angels.
But on the day i left Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said, 'this is for you'.
I half expected him to say, 'see, this is the first one I grew'.
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