I Fell in Love with Hope - Lancali

In the basest of terms, I am a soul like all those Sam likes greeting.
I’ve always been able to watch, to see, but I’ve never lived. I don’t
have a life, as people do. I am a narrator. Narrators watch.
But I became greedy. I’d had far too many violent, bloody tales to
tell. It was through Sam that I learned how to create peaceful ones.
It’s been thirteen days since the woman I was sure would pass away
got better and it’s been thirteen days since Sam fell unconscious.
The door creaks open, letting in a thin cut of light as the woman
walks in.
It draws right to Sam, bypassing my shadow in the chair next to him.
The woman wears sadness beneath her mask. With her gloves on,
she hands me two sweet breads wrapped in wax paper. She tells me
she made them for him, for when he wakes up.
The woman, in her kindness, made a mistake just now.
She said when. When Sam wakes up . That single word could hold
such power if only it weren’t a lie. I want to believe, looking at his
shut eyes and quiet body that he will wake. But time does not grant
me a when. It is not that generous. It grants me an if…
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I find myself crying. A tear,
slow and soft, trails down my cheek and catches on my jaw. I hook it
with my finger, feel the wetness, taste its salt. Then, more tears well.
They fall as I press myself against Sam’s bed and lay my face on his
pillow. I used to touch his hair, his nose, his hands, but I can’t
anymore. They’re too limp, too lacking of him.
Instead, I beg silently through the dark,
“Wake up.” Again, louder, “Wake up, please.” Selfishly, “Wake up,
Sam, for me.”