I call out your name,
"Game over!" I cry, "I can't find you! You win!"
But you don't appear with a laugh like when we were children. Of course you don't. This isn't a game of hide and seek. My head spins but my eyes do not stray as I pour the same brand of semi-skimmed milk onto the same whole grain cereal in the same chipped, pottery bowl I did 20 years ago when you sat across from me at the same hard oak table when you told me "Let's get married!". And so we did. Your mother was the priest and your face was bright with youth as you slide that tacky plastic ring from the corner shop onto my finger and kissed my cheek. But this isn't then, and you aren't him. So when I call out "Game Over!" you don't run out from the bushes, knees covered in mud and a smile like starlight on your face. When I take your hand and whisper "I can't find you." you don't respond. You never do, not even a flicker of movement in that once bright eyed face. The only answer I receive is the steady beep of your heart monitor, and the assurance in my mind that indeed, I can't find you any more. So as I slip that old, worn down tacky plastic ring from the corner shop onto your finger and kiss your cheek, I smile softly; my last goodbye. "Game over! I can't find you! You win!" And I turn and nod to the nurse, her eyes sunken with the burden of her job. "Switch him off" I whisper "Game over."