When was she going to tell me?
Was it after it was too late?
When she couldn’t hide it anymore, and she was forced to?
Or was it when it had gone so far that I didn’t think there was anything left to try?
Not that there was. I couldn’t help her. There was nothing I could do. But I wouldn’t admit that. She knew I wouldn’t. So she didn’t tell me.
She didn’t tell me that in a few months she would be gone. That she would get so sick that she would have to spend weeks at a time in the hospital.
She didn’t tell me any of this.
Not until it was too late. Not until there wasn’t time to say goodbye.
None told me what was going on until she was already laying on her deathbed.
And even then it was too late for me to get there.
Why didn’t she tell me?
I would have tried everything.
I would have done anything for her.
Maybe she knew that.
Maybe that was why she didn’t tell me.
Maybe she knew that I would end up being a broken man when she was gone.
And she didn’t want to see that while she was still here.
I wish I could get an answer to my questions.
I wish she wasn’t gone.
I wish she were still here.
And I wish she would have told me.
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Categories: flash fiction