As I’m sitting here watching the deep red blood run down the tube into this white plastic container sitting in the floor letting me know that there was over 600 millimeters of blood in your lungs, I think about how much more could possible be left in there. How much more of the man that I know as my father diminishes away down a tube? I sit here in this uncomfortable hospital chair looking at you, staring at you. Memorizing your face and all your features because lord knows how much longer I’ll have you to myself. I stare at your hair and think of a color to describe it. Brown, dark blonde? Maybe a deep strawberry blonde? I can tell I got my hair from him and not my mother. It’s a mix of all three, and I can’t choose a favorite. From your hair to your closed eyes. Your eyes don’t have to be open for me to know the color blue that they have. If diamonds were blue then they would be your eyes. They have the most amazing and unique texture... Your hands I know all too well. I remember all the hugs I received from you, I was just barely okay before your hugs and then you made everything melt away. What I would do for one of your famous hugs right now.... I wish I could take away all of this pain, I really do. You have no idea how much it hurts me to see you like this and me not be able to do anything about it. You’re supposed to be the strongest man that I know. But right now they have tubes coming from almost every inch of your body. Each one reads something different about you. Heart is beating, check. Lungs are working, hardly but yes. Blood pressure is normal, not for long the way that plastic thing looks right now. They even have you on an oxygen tank. I don’t think I knew you snored, maybe it’s because of the tube hanging out of your lungs. Every time you inhale the air tight plastic thing holding your blood moves a little. Every time you move more of the red substance I know as my father trickles down the tube and drips into the white plastic thing holding almost a liter of you. The more your lungs emit blood into the plastic holder, the more I feel like you are sinking into the hospital bed. Honestly you look like it too.

Ode to the thirteen year old boy who found his mom passed out on the bathroom floor. Ode to the doctors that stitched her arms up. Ode to the father that had to clean the crimson liquid off of the floor. Ode to the doctors that saw her later again because her organs were failing due to excessive drinking. Ode to the liquor selling man for keeping the secrets from the family. The countless secrets. But over all ode to the thirteen year old boy. I can’t stress enough the fact that the boy was thirteen, no thirteen year old should ever experience what he did. The boy found his own mother beside the bath tub. The floors, once white, are now crimson and stained. No amount of bleach could clean up what was once there. She spelled out her mistakes on her arms with a blade. Letter by letter, each swipe brought pain and more of the thick crimson liquid. Each swipe was said to let out grief and stress, she did it so much until he had nothing to stress anymore... or at least until she couldn’t