Between Breaths

I sit next to my brother.

I hold his hand.
Warm… but different.
Not the same grip I’ve known my whole life.

Watching his chest rise.
Then fall.

Slow.
Heavy.
Like each breath has weight to it.

Sometimes his breath catches.
Like the body forgets for a second…
then tries again.

I don’t look away.
I can’t.

Because there’s always that space in between.

That pause.

And in that pause, a question shows up every time.

Is there another breath coming?

I find myself counting.
One… two…
waiting to see if his body chooses another breath.

The oxygen machine hums beside him.

A steady sound.
In. Out.

It fills the room.

At some point it stops sounding like a machine
and starts feeling like a heartbeat.

Not his.

The room’s.

Counting something I can’t measure.

His eyes are open.

And he’s not gone altogether.

He is aware…
And then he is not.

He comes in.
He drifts out.

Somewhere between both.

He can hear us.

I know he can.

But he can’t respond.

And that silence says more than words ever could.

We talk to him.
Say his name.
Tell him we’re here.

Not knowing what reaches him…
but saying it anyway.

He’s still here.

And he’s afraid of leaving.

I know that because he told us.

He’s not ready.

And no matter how much we reassure him,
no matter how calm we try to be,
no matter how much we tell him it’s okay…

He doesn’t want to go yet.

Is he somewhere else?

He is here.

And in between.

Is he already crossing?

Yes.

And yet… he remains himself.

Dying.

There are no words for that.

No clean way to understand it.

Just something you feel sitting right in front of it.

Everything tightens around this moment.

Nothing else matters.

Just his breath.
Just his body.
Just him.

There’s nothing to fix.

Nothing to control.

Nothing to hold on to.

This is the first time in my life
where doing nothing
is the only thing I can do.

So I sit.

I breathe with him.

In.
Out.

Matching what I can.

Just to be there with him.

Death might be coming.

But he is not ready to knock on that door yet.

And I stay.

Right here.

With him.

As long as he’s still here.

And maybe I’m not ready either.