Superhuman
So I took her hand and held it up to my chest, right to my beating heart. Her skin was cold and lifeless, which perfectly describes her condition now. Poor girl had her life ahead of her. She would’ve been the president, or maybe a dancer, or a mother of three in a house down the suburbs. Imagine that?
So I took her hand and held it up to my chest. I held it tight. And took it from her, the pain. The anguish. It’s what I do, you see. I take it from you, so you wouldn’t have to hold it. I felt her skin warm up like a tiny ember, like a cup of hot chocolate during Christmas eve. Mother and I used to clink our cups together. “Happy Christmas,” she would tell me as I draw the first little marshmallow to my lips.
So I took her hand and held it up to my chest, and I let it slip. Or, it just slipped. The gentle kindle turned colder, and colder. I saw her get up from her mattress like a blossoming lily, as I slowly faltered back. It’s what I do, you see. I take it from you, as I took it from her. As I took it from mother, as I took it from Susan, from Francine, from Brandon, from Pete, from Jesse. It’s what I do, you see. It’s what I do.
