my abuelito is in the hospital.
my 95 year old grandpa
who talks like he's in the mafia,
blasts his music like a teenager,
and cheats at blackjack,
and he's not getting better.
i'm afraid if he goes,
the floodgates will open
and heaven will call all my favorites
i'm not ready for this.
i'm not ready for death to start playing.
i'm not ready to say goodbye.
it feels selfish of me to keep saying "i"
like i'm the only one that hurts.
and it's unfair to focus on future losses
that shouldn't even be thoughts.
but that's what death does.
it knocks and knocks
and forces you to listen.
it rips open your heart and injects
a fear that spreads like fire.
my angel of a mother,
has been taking care of him
round the clock for over a year.
she is so strong.
she is so sweet.
she is so selfless.
i don't know how she does it.
watching my uncle cry,
listening to my mom and her siblings
talk to him about everyday things
like shaving or summer plans,
trying to convince him everything is okay
adds salt to the wound.
i never thought i'd think
95 is too young.
but it is.
it really, really is.