I hate Hospitals.

The graphite smell of aftermath piano keys strikes these glossy, laminate halls. The terminal illness of after-death hung on the air like it had something to prove; children’s hearts break here, after-words failing to make up for the tremendous loss—the tears swell, lips cripple—
This is where I lost my mother.
It took me seven years to realize that I couldn't ever get her back. I remember that day, not gloomy or raining, but a torrential downpour of sunlight and cloudless zealotry. It brushed past her face through the blinds, as I sat there with my siblings. We bled for her here, the salty taste of our childhood and the numb coordination of our stumbled efforts caressing the ground without us. We all said goodbye. I was the last one to leave.
She struggled to swallow, but her golden-blue eyes did not fail to tell me the truth:

Mama? Where are you going?
I’m going home, my boy.
I want to come, mama.
You can’t come. You have to take care of your sisters for me.
Will I see you soon?
I will always be here for you.