One More Thing
Tori Talamonti
June 13, 2006

~~~~~~~

She has an amazing memory.

She remembers nights years and years ago. She remembers running down the stairs, hands clutched at her throat. She remembers lips turning blue from lack of oxygen. She remembers sitting on the porch with her mother, breathing in the frigid winter air to make the swelling go down.

She remembers when cold night air stopped working. She remembers the oxygen tent in the hospital, the sound of air being pushed and pulled through the chamber, the feel of her only human contact - her mother’s hand, grasping at her through a slit in barrier that separated them. She remembers stuffed animals in balloons three times the size of her head. She remembers her mother promising to make her waffles as soon as she was well enough to go home.

She remembers getting sick again from the same cold air that once aided her. She remembers developing that same cough again - the one that sounded like a barking seal. She remembers the first panic attack, the first all-nighter in the emergency room. She remembers pulling over to the side of the highway at six in the morning for a nap because she was too tired to drive home.

She remembers when her friends first found out. She remembers curling in the van, trying her best to keep from coughing, body shaking with the effort. She remembers the worried touches, the frantic voices begging her to tell them what was wrong. She remembers letting go, the force of her coughing demanding all of her attention. She remembers nearly collapsing from exhaustion when she had finished. She remembers a pair of arms wrapping about her, pulling her back against a warm chest. She remembers how he smelled that day, the texture of his hoodie against her cheek, the feel of his fingers stroking her hair and lulling her to sleep.

She remembers nights after that, when he would remind the guys not to make her laugh or talk too much. She remembers going to bed early. She remembers the same pair of arms draping loosely over her hips to keep her from coughing herself off the bunk. She remembers curling against a warm body, shaking through the aftershocks. She remembers going to sleep comforted with the knowledge that he would watch over her.

She remembers one afternoon drive. She remembers the car rolling to a stop in line. She remembers the feel of his hand on hers, the feel of the ring resting warm against her skin, its partner adorning the hand that still held the wheel. She remembers being hit from behind. She remembers spinning out into the middle of the intersection. She remembers a large grate filling her vision before she blacked out. She remembers waking up in an upside-down world. She remembers struggling against her seat belt in a panic. She remembers the dry voice next to her, telling her to breath, just breathe. She remembers the feeling of the firm hand in hers going limp.

And she is tired of remembering.

She turns her eyes to the ceiling once more, ignoring the red stains on her pillow. She hopes that no one has noticed, that no one comes until the beeping stops, until she is gone. She coughs again, but it is not the dry bark she is used to - it sounds more like phlegm is trying to come up. But she knows what it really is.

She shudders and closes her eyes. She is tired. The only thing she cares to remember right now is the feel of his hoodie, the warmth of his body, the sound of his voice.

And she lets go then.

Because she knows that she won’t have to remember anymore.

Because she knows that she won’t have to be afraid anymore.

Because she knows that she is going home.

She is going to him.

And as people bustle about all around her, she feels the weight of the ring on her hand and remembers one more thing.

Just one.

“I love you.”