By Payton Cianfarano
Two-hundred-forty-seven hours ago you stopped talking. I should have known then that something was wrong, but this was the fourth time in one-hundred-sixty-eight hours that someone had warned me you were going to stop breathing. After the third time I stopped worrying.
Two-hundred-forty-four hours ago I heard my mom crying, a sign that I should find my way to where she was and see what was going on. I found her wrapping herself around you so tightly that I’m surprised what you had left of a body didn’t break.
Two-hundred-forty-four hours ago I never heard someone scream as loud as my mom did when you stopped breathing. When she let herself drop to the ground I could hear you saying not to worry about it but I don’t think anyone else heard you besides me. I held your hand but your grip loosened around mine.
One-hundred-twenty hours ago I heard “Calling Doctor Love” and “Fat Bottomed Girls” played in church. I know it would have made you laugh but the funeral director did not find it quite as funny. When he listed your family he left out my name. I sat still next to my mother and pretended I couldn’t feel everyone’s eyes shift over onto me.