Death of My Dear Diary

Rushed through the hall,
I didn’t understand,
These bitter smells of bleached sheets,
Sickness,
And Medication.

Shook and shaken by one word, I set out on my way to you.
Through closed eyes I can remember those younger days we used to play. Your crinkled, worn hands caressed mine many times as we reached for sugar while playing with teacups. Although your house was small it was cozy all the same, with pale white walls bordered with fruit. Often I remember wondering how it might taste. Like paper? Or could they possibly taste like real like in our once favourite movie “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”.
But as I walk down these halls I hear coughs, calls, and illness. It is a strange thing how death calls, whispering its patients closer, almost like the violins entertaining those on the ‘Titanic’.
I remember your soft features all to dearly, how pale your shiny blue eyes were, specked with grey, and how they would squint as you flashed your famous white smile. Your hands were a lot larger then mine in comparison, oh, how I remember your thick fingers chancing me around the room, a threat of a tickle attack.
We were close, you and I. You were my support, you would listen to my every word, memorize everything I said, when it was squabbling or my daily troubles. I needed no paper journal to write in, you were my personal diary.
I remember my face flushing with pride when you would call me your “Favourite granddaughter”, even though I was your only one. In those days my mind was too young to truly understand the concept of your words, it was much the same with the word “Cancer”.
But even now I still clearly remember walking down that short hallway that turned seconds into hours. I don’t recall how many sunrises and sunsets passed during my walk, it seemed to be eternity’s length. I remember curiously watching doctors stride past me, as well as visitors, some crying, some not. The hospital was thick with smells I tried to forget at that time, no child likes to concentrate on the smells of sickness, bleach, and sterilizers.
I clearly remember reaching your room, it was a small room; many machines were in there, IV machines and others I never bothered to ask about, too many machines. Oh, how I hated machines. Who in their right mind would want to spend time with a machine while they could be dancing about outside? But you did not look fit to go dancing and you were not in your right mind. Your pale skin was even paler then usual, it looked to frail and cold, I was afraid to touch it. Your grip was week too, as week as your mind. When your glazed, blue eyes met mine you started to cry. You claimed you did not remember me, but I truly think you did. A person does not normally cry to a stranger, not for good reason. Or maybe you had forgotten me, but it pained you to try and remember. I don’t know which it was, and I don’t think I ever will.
Once your sobs had come to an end you said in a frail voice that sounded as if it would shatter like a broken mirror. “Are you my angel? Hold me. Please.”
And that is what I did as I left that strongly lit room full of IV machines and roses. I left my sweet diary under his folded sheets, sleeping whatever sweet dreams a man in delusion may have. As my hand slowly slipped from the golden doorknob of heaven’s gates I smiled, but only for an instant as my eyes welled up in tears for I know we would never truly let each other go. To this day I can still feel your warm embrace, and I know you are watching me from above, and holding me when I am in need.