I was a kid and I remember my parents rushing me in, the white walls and gray shadows, a lot of tears, a lot of movement, a lot of white. A lot of people. There were tubes going into his nose, into his body, a bag of clear liquid, a machine at the side, white blankets...it was so unreal.
And maybe I was supposed to be crying too, but then maybe I didn't know what death was, even if I knew what it meant. I just felt quite blank."Say goodbye - say I love you, tell him you love him".
So I told him. "I love you. Goodbye." And then a while later he passed away.
I don't like the word goodbye.
I'd rather just go. 'Goodbye' always means there is a possibility that you will never meet again. Every goodbye is a small death, because how is a person living and breathing - to you - unless they are in front of you, living and breathing? Of course, in the end there is always the final, irreversible death.
I told Sir that "no matter what happens, I'll be back. Whether in April or in August," and I didn't tell the tkd kids anything.
And when I leave my granddad at the door of his house, he tells me thanks, and I say thanks, like an awkward noob because 'you're welcome' sounds like I'm doing him a favour...I'm not. And I step in the lift and go. Maybe he knows ^^ Because in the ICU he told me how to select a good husband, how to aim high and focus on my goals, but he never told me goodbye, either.