Sam Dylan French beautifully memorializes a friend.
There were drains hanging from my chest when I made the first phone call. Not even two days before, I was under the knife, having a surgeon — an artist — remake my chest. These are scars that you will never see.
“Hey,” I say softly into the phone. “I think you should come over. I’ll explain when you get here.”
When I hang up, I straighten my spine and I slap myself across the cheek. Our friends are coming over, and I remind myself that I can’t crumble, not now. I’ve never had to disclose that someone is dying, to shatter the world as they knew it with a single sentence. I guess because I was the one that was usually on the brink of death.
This was not the thunder I wanted stolen from me.
There’s a knock on my door, and the words are falling out…
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