I Fell in Love with Hope - Lancali

Henry faces his pipe again. He caresses the mouthpiece, looking
across the room as if another cot sits beside his, a neighboring soul
under the covers.
He speaks to the air, to that little ghost he keeps handy. He mumbles
things I can’t quite make out, something about I remember, and
almost, and I’ll be there soon.
I wait till Henry is asleep before I go see Sam. He’s reading a book,
one of his hands in a fist as blood slowly drained from his arm and
into a bag.
The patches on his skin sting against the cold air, cracking and
bleeding, making him wince. A layer of gray and purple shrouded his
eyes. I crawled into the bed with him and ask about his day.
He kisses my head and talks to me, drawing his sentences out,
using more words than he has to, because he knows his voice calms
me.
I ask Sam if he feels trapped by his body as Henry feels trapped in
his.
Sam asks why I would think that. I tell him that he’s sick. He says
you don’t have to be sick to feel stuck. I ask again if that’s how he
feels. Sam says trapped isn’t the right word. He says he feels
grounded because his mind can go anywhere it wants, but his body
always brings him home.
He plays with my hair as I trace the healthy skin around the mounds
of rawness.
He asks me if I’m okay.
I say I wish I could listen more without understanding less.
—
Henry dies a few days later.