He couldn't breathe
And neither could I
holding my breath while watching him struggle for his
The carpet was worn in the spot near the ottoman
The place he would lay with a stack of pillows
Positioning his chest in just the right way
To relieve pressure and allow a breath
It was every day
For years and years
So normal that it became annoying
I resented the worn spot on the carpet
Caring more about a rug than the man who was fighting for his life with each breath
If I could go back I would have more empathy
I would slow my pace to his
Let him nap without interruption
Not slam the door on the way out
Because I was angry he wasn't coming too
What was it like to struggle to breathe?
For his organs to be so overloaded with fluid that he couldn't function
With no reprieve
For years upon year
while we forgot that he was sick
And thought he was just slow
The day came when he took his last breath
He was placed in a grave instead of his spot on the floor
And now the carpet looks normal
But he is gone
And I wish I could have him back
Worn carpet and all