You died on Sunday. Just a few hours after I’d left your bedside to go sleep at home. At least I didn’t have to hold your hand when it happened. Even though our relationship was a fully broken thing, from wire to wire, it still would have killed me.
When I came back to the hospital they’d moved you, but your stream was ready for viewing. I said I wanted to watch it and they took me down to this white room that made me feel like I was inside an egg. There were muted lights and a long screen on the wall. I sat on this deep couch and use the tablet to scroll through your life. It was all there, the “raw footage.” Incredible amounts of it. I searched around for things I recognized and just went from there. They said they can only do a proper, honest download within the first hour after the patient is deceased. Because that’s when they don’t manipulate anything anymore. It’s when people stop lying to themselves and stop trimming and splicing their memories. I had to pay a lot for it. But I watched it because I knew no one else would care to.
For the two years after I was born, I was the biggest thing in your life. Then my role devolved into a smattering of cameos. I was always doing something else. I got big really fast and then I went away for a long time. We talked sometimes, but we didn’t say anything.
But now I know all the things you never said, and I know why. And now I know what your dad always told you and how that changed you. So I finally know your origin. Why you were like that. So now I can forgive you.
I left and felt like I was trapped in a vice. Because I also have to wait until I die to be understood.