There have been many times she has cried and said things, snuggled in all close and warm, her face buried wet and salty into mine. Damp soft sobs, breathing, murmuring words. I've never minded. In fact, I like it. That's just how my Best Friend and I are. Fifteen years of togetherness, we know each other's ways. But her crying is different this time, she's not saying things, she's holding me tighter.
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Me, I'm not too good. These days I just watch things. This morning she washed my blanket. She brought it with us on the car ride, put it on this stainless steel table, settling me on top of it. This whole blanket thing — that's different too. The rest is familiar. This is the room where we always wait for my occasional friend — the tough love guy — to come in and see me. He's got lights and things and the shots. He always tries to make it seem like he and I are in this together and keeps a steady, easy hand on me. He says I'm a good sport for my participation. He's ok. I just wait 'till the visits are over.
But today as Best Friend and I wait for him, she's crying and things seem different. Me, I have the slows, that's just how it is now — so my blanket is a good deal. I'm concerned about Best Friend though. She's crying and not saying anything. She seems alone with something.
Me on my washed blanket and the "we're all in this together" tough love guy — he holds my leg and pushes the shot, acting that steady way he does, saying something about “the last nice thing we can do for you, Hank." Hank — that's my name. Best Friend's arms are around me now, her warm wet face pressed in my ear. In a voice so quiet, so clear, she says to me “Thank you Hank, for everything." Her simple, unexpected words hit tough love guy square. He sags, and then he crumples over me too.
I'm barely holding on as a memory releases from my farthest, warmest past, this is like a puppy pile — all of us in this together — this sad, loving heap of breathing, helplessness and warmth.
