remember warmth

It happens so fast, even when machines keep you breathing beyond your allotted breaths. The moments race by and the tubes and wires and dripping morphine infiltrate and sedate cold flesh. The sci-fi scene obliterates romantic sentiments of death. This is no Marat. This is no General Wolfe. 

This is an uncle made mecha by modern medicine. This is an uncle that, just a week and half ago called you out of the blue to spend time with him in a provident moment of unknown finality. An uncle that spoke of the world, and the beauty of Mexico, and how he got lost in the chaos of Columbia when Pablo Escobar was killed, and how he crashed the wedding of a wine importer's daughter in England. 

And this is an uncle who also spoke of death in that final visit. An uncle who missed the already departed, but said he wasn't ready to go. 

And you are shocked because you think just because someone says they're not ready to go, they won't. Then you realize that none of it matters and you cling on to those last precious minutes together because that was your gift of closure. That was the end of your good memories. Because who wants to hold on to that pitiful hospital imagery? I cling to the warm words that conjured Cancun breezes and dolphin seas. I cling on with all that death has left in its cool swift grey wake.