I drove you to the hospital that day. It was the Fourth of July and I couldn’t look directly at you, so I just drove. You called her on the way and told her you loved her. I bit my tongue and kept my eyes on the road. The waiting room was this horrible dance, and I didn’t know whether to follow you or not. I didn’t know if you wanted me. But you beckoned, and I kept you company, and eventually a nurse came into the room to find out why we were being so loud.
We were laughing. We were laughing about everything. I signed your discharge papers.
I need the company now. Someone to hold my hand when the needles hurt, to pet my hair and distract me. You’re the one I want to drive me to the hospital.
But I can’t ask you for that.