shally

The month I knew I truly loved you was cold. It was 1996, sometime around October, but after the stroke, every day seemed to blend together. I begged with God, pleaded that you'd wake up and remember how to live; to function. I prayed that you'd remember to speak overnight. Everything was so hard now. We- you, communicated grunts and grumbles of vague words to which I would sob over in the middle of the night. We slept in different beds. Other people were always in our home because you needed caretakers, and yet I convinced myself to hold on. 

The week I knew I truly loved you was hectic. You were frantic for God knows what reason, clawing at floorboards and yourself. I watched your mop of hair get more and more matted day by day as you adamantly opposed brushing it. You smelled of musk, a smell I once relished and showered myself in by wearing your clothes while you 'recovered' in the hospital. We had five different caretakers quit that week, so I had to resort to begging in the newspaper. Eventually, I found someone new, but what would have happened if I hadn't? One day, I realized you wanted your stash. You still had something, left forgotten in the floorboards, and you were determined to find it even though you had no memory of where it may be. We had to rip our home apart, piece by piece, to make sure you didn't find that stash- if it even existed, and yet, I convinced myself to hold on. 

The day I knew I truly loved you, we had let the sunlight waste as we spent the whole day 'fighting', if you could even call it that. It was like arguing with a stubborn child, even though I knew you didn't mean to be childish. We sat at the dinner table; you at one end with a stack of blank notecards and a pen, me at the other with only my voice and frustrations. You had taken to writing so much better than you had to speaking. So far, this was the only way we had somewhat fluent conversations since the stroke. It was horrible. I missed the silly way you poorly serenaded me with love songs. I missed the joking debates we held together, arguing on why one superhero was wholeheartedly superior or something along those lines. I missed when I didn't have to monitor everything on the TV because your therapist told me anything could set you off into another relapse.  I missed when it was just us in the house with no needed caretakers, and yet, I convinced myself to hold on. 

The night I knew I truly loved you, I stormed away and sulked in what used to be our bed. You had knocked on the door at two in the morning. I groggily opened it to ogle at your disheveled form. You stood there; pajama pants barely hanging onto your skinny hips, a broken hairbrush outstretched in your hands, hair tangled to your ears with another restless night, and a quivering lip paired with the glossiest eyes I had ever seen. My eyes had pricked with tears when I saw you, really saw how scared, lost, and small you were. I spoke not a word, simply let you crawl into our bed. I needed no more convincing, I chose to hold on and never let go for as long as I could. 

The moment I knew I truly loved you, I had just finished brushing out every knot and tangle from your mane as you sat between my legs. You turned toward me and stared for a couple of minutes before beginning to climb out of bed, but I stopped you. I needed you. You needed me. So, I simply held you. I held you for hours. Then, with as much force as you could muster you muttered three words that changed me. 

"I love you."