we used to fish

He forgot everything that brought him joy before forgetting how to breathe. I guess he would have preferred breathing be taken first, as it was pointless without the memories that accompanied the inhales and exhales.

Most of the time we don’t get to choose, withering in a broken hospital bed somewhere in front of friends and family who would eventually grow to resent us. Both seeking relief and never admitting it, steadfast in the little we still offered each other. It was no one’s fault in particular, neither the family nor the sick. Both wanting it to be over, but neither knowing how.

It was the simple fulfillment of another obligation.

I held his hand and watched his mind betray his lungs, like it had betrayed me for all of those years. The rattling rise and fall of his chest that had dutifully pushed against crumpled sheets for the last several months stopped and only the sound was the television which was never turned off. Holding on only to forget more, there was some beauty in the final act of submission knowing that the few memories that remained would remain on the cold concrete next to the furnace that swallowed and burned everything else. No more unsteady hands to unwillingly push more logs into the flames, seduced by false warmth.