As the sun begins to rise I can feel its warmth as its rays push through the curtains. It reminds me that I’m alive as the heat unfreezes my stiff muscles. Its reflection against my pale skin blinds me. Staring at my glowing hands, I notice the wrinkles and sunspots that litter my body. I feel a warm hand grab mine, small, smooth, young. Glancing up, I see the familiar face of my grandchild smiling at me. She wears a soft smile that’s corrupted by the tears pooling in her eyes. Good morning. I begin to notice my environment and look around. I take a headcount of the people standing around me, my daughter, her husband, my grandchild, and… Is that my husband? I glance down at my frail left hand, adorned with a dainty ring. How could I forget? My heart drops. Wait, no, not yet. I’ve watched it countless times with the people I loved before them. I’m next, aren’t I? 

Friendly conversation, and small talk. I try to let them ignore what’s happening. The present is fading into vague memories as I join in their discussion, unsure if I’m giving the correct responses. The solemn looks on their faces tell me I’m doing a poor job at keeping up with the facade. I can see the hourglass running out, and realize that most of my life has fallen into the void of the forgotten. I reach for the photo album sitting on the nightstand, and the calloused, wrinkled hand of my husband hands it to me. Hi Bear. 

I was a nurse. I did it. A smile reveals itself. I did a good job. I feel a sense of purpose rush over me as I know I must have helped, or even saved countless lives. I can accept the fact that at this moment, I will assume the role of being a patient. 

Drunken Snapchat memories with dog filters fill the pages. They look so strange printed. I must have been 19 here. And then I see her. Frankie Thatcher. I point to her and my husband shakes his head, no. Fuck. She was my everything. My best friend. My sister. An angel who wasn’t afraid of sinning. She was the life of the party and the one that tucked you into bed with a story. It’s a rare occurance to meet people that are so chaotically perfect. I chuckle. Screenshots of us running away from the cops, going on vacations, crashing parties, and being reckless with our group from highschool are now laminated, memories encapsulated forever. With a heavy heart filled with love, I turn the page. 

My wedding day. We were highschool sweethearts. The cutest boy, now an elderly man, sits at my bedside. I remember the way his chest falls when I slept on him, and the feeling of his kiss on my lips. We were married in the fall, as I always wanted. I notice in the next few pictures that my stomach is increasingly growing in size, my daughter. In the pictures of her playing with the family dog as an infant I realize how lovely our house was. I’m happy we could provide a good life for her. 

I close the book. “Don’t mourn for me. I lived a great life. Everything I did led to you all being here, and for that, I wouldn’t change a thing. I hope that one day, when your time comes, you can look back on your life with the same fulfillment that I feel at this moment”. This is it, as the credits come rolling in, I finally understand that in life and death, we all continue on.