I've never told another what I'm about to tell you.
Five years ago, when you were in the hospital,
We knew you were nearing closer and closer to your end
With each passing hour.
Mom called to say you weren't strong enough
For the surgery that could have saved your life.
There was nothing we could do.
I sent up a prayer, pleading for your comfort
No more suffering, you'd been through enough.
I uttered a silent sob, and the phone rang--
You were gone. No more.
There was nothing we could do.

For years, I blamed your death on myself.
How long do you keep the number of a dead man?
The answer is simple- forever.
I must have called you 100 times;
I knew you couldn't answer,
But I just needed to hear your voice again saying,
"Sorry that I missed you. Leave a message and God bless."

The voicemail is gone now,
And that phone number is no longer yours,
But it will forever be etched into my mind.
After all, *there's nothing else I can do.