A letter to my Grandpa. He's in the hospital, and I had to write this.
It feels wrong to be here - without you.
It's your house, and I've only been in it a few times without you.
You should be here,
But instead you're in a hospital bed,
Fighting to breathe.
Last night they said you might not make it to today,
But this morning they tell us you're doing the same as last night.
Dad even talked to you.
But I still have the memory-
Etched into my brain,
Your entire body moving,
As you struggled for one more breath.
That was yesterday.
At first you couldn't talk,
And we talked to you anyway.
I told you that it was my spiritual birthday,
And that you had a lot of people praying for you,
And that I loved you.
And I started crying.
And you opened your eyes,
I think you saw the tears.
Later you were unconscious,
Dad came out and told me I had to decide,
Whether I wanted to see you or not.
I decided I wanted to.
I wanted to be there,
Because there was a chance you might know.
But then you woke up.
And they took you off the ventilator,
You said you thought you were going to be with Jesus for a while there.
Dad read the Bible to you,
I watched your face,
I saw the longing there,
And I cried.
We sang a hymn to you,
And I couldn't make it all the way through,
Because you started mouthing the words like they meant the world to you,
And I couldn't keep back the tears.
We're going to the hospital again later.
I want you to be in heaven,
Where there is no more pain,
Where you want to be,
But I'm praying so hard that you're better,
Because I have so much I didn't get to tell you,
That I can't tell you when you're like this.
And if you're not -
I might cry.
Like I am now.
I love you.