(1 of 1. Originally posted on February 16, 2024 for the prompt “The Letter.”)
Hospital noises blurred into a static background of beeps and murmurs. Antiseptic and citrus reeked of death. Lucinda’s arm looked like a broken toy, patched together with medical tape and tubes. But in her face, Miguel saw his bride peeking through her veil, drinking his heart with her eyes.
“Don’t you dare give up,” Lucinda’s voice never rose above a rough whisper.
Miguel shook his head, not trusting his own voice. His mind went back to their first years together. Studying for exams at three in the morning. Lucinda coming home from a ten-hour shift, and the first thing she asked was if he’d eaten supper. When he failed a class, she kissed him and told him how much she loved him. She taught him sacrifice. How could he do less for her?
“I meant, don’t give up on you.” She hadn’t lost her talent for mind reading. “If you come to my grave smelling like liquor, I won’t speak to you. I’ll go haunt mama, instead.”
You come home drunk one more time, and I’m moving back with mama. The fire in her voice burned in his memory. He believed her at the time, but another day of rejected applications had found him in the bar again, having just one drink to take the edge off. Many drinks later, he stumbled home to find her already packed. It took him three months to get the help he needed. When he got his first chip, she came to support him. In ten years, she never held it against him.
“I can’t…” His voice broke.
Her fingers twitched against his, an echo of that day two years ago when he’d held her hand in silence. The loss of their son broke them both. But they’d leaned on each other, one day at a time. She taught him how to get through pain that can’t be fixed. But they’d always had each other.
Her eyes drifted closed. The machines bleeped an alarm, and a blizzard of white uniforms blew in.
“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to wait outside.” A faceless orderly ushered him to the door. Minutes later, or maybe hours, someone offered condolences. They left him in the waiting room, perhaps reading in his face the need to be alone with his grief.
Miguel stared at the words scrawled on the back of an envelope he pulled from his pocket. For Miguel, when I’m gone.
He fumbled with the seal, trying to rip it open without marring her handwriting. Blinking back tears, he unfolded the scrap of paper it contained.
Miguel, corazón. I know you feel like a part of you is gone. You only remember your failures, but I had flaws too. We made each other better. Two broken pieces that fit together into one. Grieve, because a part of you died with me. Be strong, because a part of me lives on in you. I’ll always be with you. Live, for both of us.
