Witness

This is an essay I wrote about my friend Lorna for my English class this year. Enjoy.

Witness

Beep. Beep. Beep. The monitor ominously spat mosquito-like warnings; a constant reminder of what was to come, what would inevitably occur. My heart beat so loudly in my chest that I was sure it could be heard far outside this dreary, fresh-scented, white room. But I walked steadily, purposefully, breathing deeply and even trying to paste on the smile I almost always seem to hide behind. I looked to my right and she lay there. She was glazed in a thin layer of glossy sweat, her face contorted with pain. There were others there, but I saw only her.

I sat down beside her, gripping her hand. I glanced up at her face, immediately turning away. This was not Lorna. That is, this was not the Lorna I knew. I stared at her worn, wrinkled hand. The same hand that had been laced with a wedding ring so many years earlier, the same hand that had served so many, the same hand that had held me close when I needed comfort. Her skin was soft, almost too soft. I braved another peek at her face, this time allowing my gaze to linger for a few moments. I noticed her eyes, the only part of her tortured body that lay motionless. They were closed. She could have been sleeping if it were not for her shallow, labored breaths and frequent convulsions throughout her chest, accompanied by the wheezing oxygen machine in the corner. As I stroked her hand, her eyes opened. I looked directly into them and I could see her soul. This was Lorna. She was still here.

I wanted to say something, to tell her how much she meant to me, to say goodbye, but the words would not come. She, who could not speak, had said it all with her eyes. So I resigned to holding her hand. I didn’t know how else to tell her the thoughts of thanks and love that were racing around in my head, pounding to get out.

In a matter of seconds, the chaos inside my head became a reality. The monitor screeched. People scurried. I squeezed Lorna’s hand and then let go forever. The ones who loved her most gathered around her, whispering final goodbyes and words of love, but I knew she was already gone.

And then I saw it: my blue jacket. It was sitting guiltily on the oxygen machine. My heart skipped a beat--or fifty. I felt the blood drain from my face and I could taste the fear on my tongue. Had I done this? Was it my fault that it had happened at that moment?

I knew, deep down, that it was not my fault. It had nothing to do with my jacket. It had not really stopped the oxygen flow. I reasoned that it had been sitting there the whole time and it would have happened a lot sooner if that had been the cause of all of this. But there was still no explanation for why this had happened.

There was only pain; and somewhere beneath all the rubble there was the knowledge that she was now at peace. But there was a lot of wreckage to shovel through before that acceptance could be reached. All I could see was darkness. I wanted to break down, to let the grief and the weight of what I had just witnessed crush down on me, if only for a second. How could I ever be happy again?

And then it happened. The world seemed to stand still. A breeze rushed through the room, through my body. A tingle spread from my toes to my hair and goose bumps popped up on my arms. That was Lorna. She was there. And I smiled.