I had a dream. And in it you died. I remember lying on the bed next to you, there were tears in your eyes. The doctors had told me soon you'd be gone. Like a faded memory, drifting like sand from my arms. Mom was in tears, and so was dad. I'd never seen him that bad. Big brother was nowhere to be found, but I heard his distant sobs come from the bathroom stalls. Sis had been crying out in the halls.
While I sat on your bed, staring down at you. There was nothing I could do. They told me, you couldn't even be touched. Your poor little face streamed with tears, you've had too much. I remember you asking me if I could play, I told you no. You asked me to stay, "Please don't go."
Through your soft sobs, and with red eyes, you murmured; "Will I die?"
I didn't know what to say. I just stared and removed the few strands of hair that covered your face. You frowned and released a fresh set of tears. "Can mom come with me?" you asked. I shook my head, crying harder into my arm. "How about dad?"
I hadn't spoken, didn't say a word. Just cried harder. That's all you heard. But I did pray hard, as I suspect the others had too. Because in the morning they found, a healthy new you. You sat on the bed, playing with toys, asking us if we could join. I nodded and sat down beside you, the doctors had said it was safe to. I played with a toy car that vroomed around the bed, you giggled and shook your little head. You and I played for hours. That's how it ended. I woke up with tears. What could that have mended?
You sat on the couch, beside your sister, across from me. You were still here. I assumed everything was okay, but still, that dream haunts me, to this very day. And every moment I fear, you will drift away.
Please don't.
I'll play.