When I told you that it’s hard for me to trust, I think you took that to mean you were an exception, and it wasn’t a praise so much as a warning, and I didn’t tell you that I give everyone the benefit of the doubt. I take care of people; that is what I do. Through sickness and sorrow and struggle and pain, I am strong for the people I love. Through moments when they take desperate jabs at me, drag my name through the dirt, and say things they never meant, I take care of them, because that is who I am. And it’s a funny thing about people who help others, they tend to believe in the innate goodness of humans. They tend to believe, and they’ll tell you if you ask them, that every time they’ve been let down it was a fluke; that everyone would be there, if they could.
You could have been there. Every breath I took inside the glass box of a hospital room, was air that I wish I could have pushed against the outside of your face as you held me, wish I could have, forced those words I was choking over into your mouth so I could pretend you wanted to tell me: “it will be okay, love, it only hurts for the moment. You don’t have to be scared, because you’ll have my circulation to cut off with your fingers while you wait, and my lips to rejoice in when you wake up, and you’re just fine.” And it’s funny, because solitude is a two lane road, when it’s forced on you, and every empty chair has your name on it when you said you would be there, and the needles would still have been as sharp and the drugs would still have made me tearful but at least, if you were holding me hand, I would’ve been able to say, I have someone I can count on to get me through this. I suppose, that every problem is an opportunity, if you have the foresight to roll it over in your hand, and it is true that your abandon did not kill me, and neither did the fear, or the operation, and so far neither has the pain, but please know, love, that when you tell me: “I love you more than anything,” I can’t help but write you a footnote.