The night you died, I knew it was coming. The body goes through a certain process in its final hours, and the hospice nurse had called and told me all about them. The strangest education. As I'd said over and over in your final weeks, "fascinating". I just wished it wasn't happening to you.
In those last days and hours I thought, we are so close that I'm certain when the moment comes that you leave this plane something will happen to indicate it to me. Maybe while doing the dishes I'll drop a glass or knick my finger with a knife. Certainly I'll shed a bit of blood and later I'd find out, THAT WAS THE MOMENT.
(With many other things, you gave me a flair for the theatrical. Thank you for that.)
But it wasn't that way. You left quietly. The nurse called to let me know you had "expired". I asked when, as if it would somehow matter. "10 minutes ago."
I was more calm than I thought I knew how to be. As I made calls to Joel and then to your sister and cousin, I softly almost whispered the news. My breath seemed to be all exhale.
But who wasn't calm? Bayley. In that moment, she was my id. She galloped from one corner of that apartment on Wolcott in Chicago to another, letting out howls every time she paused, so urgent and loud I couldn't hear the phone calls. "Bayley - please!" I pleaded with her. She was doing what I couldn't, what I couldn't summon the strength to do - wailing at the loss.
You were gone. My "other half", so similar physically, I wondered which spell you'd used so I'd have none of my father's DNA. Even the mole just below my left clavicle, red just like yours, same spot as yours.
I was yours.