Chapter 30
Benjamin still woke up eventually, saying he didn’t want tubes covering his body.
He transferred to hospice care.
He couldn’t eat anything anymore. Even a single grain of rice would turn into pools of dark blood that he’d vomit out.
I’d often hear people say:
One shouldn’t leave on an empty stomach.
So I kept thinking Benjamin should eat something.
But when he stopped trying, I stopped pushing him.
Most days, Benjamin remained unconscious. Curled up on the hospital bed, his six–foot–two frame wracked with pain, nearly unable to
straighten his body.
During rare moments of clarity, he always liked me to push him outside for sunlight.
He loves cleanliness, so the nurse gives him a sponge–bath daily.
During his naps, I sit by his bed reminiscing about our past.
Those unhappy memories–I’ve no desire to revisit them.
Benjamin stayed with me through New Year’s Eve.
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That night, he seemed miraculously better.
He even insisted on ordering dumplings.
“Another year passed,” he said weakly. “Dumplings make it complete.”
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, “I wish you smooth and peaceful days ahead.”
My throat tightened, but I gripped his hand tightly. “I’ll remember.”
As the clock struck midnight,
Fireworks bloomed outside the hospital window.
His lips curved into a faint smile.
His voice was soft: “Elizabeth, I’m sorry.”
“Forget me.”
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I stared blankly out the window, tears falling like scattered beads, unstoppable.
I didn’t want him to see my grief, so I didn’t turn around.
But then he never made another sound.
When I wiped my tears and looked back, the heart monitor showed a flatline.
In that moment, I realized no amount of mental preparation
could ever make me accept this reality.
I choked on my sobs.
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Yet I still helped Emma Clark arrange his funeral.
Following Benjamin’s final wishes, we scattered all his ashes at sea. He wanted no tombstone.
He said, if you don’t miss, you won’t remember.
If you don’t remember, you won’t be sad.
He was afraid Elizabeth would be sad for him.
When we arrived at the funeral home, and he was about to be pushed into the furnace.
I suddenly cried out in a heart–wrenching scream: “Benjamin, can’t you just stay with me a bit longer?”
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Over and over again.
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On the big screen in the waiting area of the funeral home, the whole screen showed people in their seventies and eighties.
Only Benjamin’s name shone glaringly-
Furnace number three: Benjamin, twenty–three years old.
My heart choked up again.
After the cremation, Emma held the urn in her arms.
She didn’t cry; she was very calm.
She just kept calling out, over and over, “Benjamin, mom will take you home, Benjamin, come home with mom…”
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At that moment, she was thinking.
Back when she brought him home from the hospital, she called out just like this.
“My dear, let’s go home with Mommy!”
I stood nearby, feeling utterly helpless.
Benjamin.
It should’ve been me who died.
I’d never imagined Benjamin would become just a memory.
He’d become a picture on the wall.
I thought maybe tomorrow, after waking up, I’d forget him.
When tomorrow passed, I told myself perhaps the day after would bring forgetfulness.
Until much, much later did I realize
his face was beginning to fade from my memory.
The moment I truly noticed I was forgetting him,
fear gripped me–fear that I’d lose him completely.
So day after day she pulled out his photos.
Elizabeth, oh Elizabeth.
Even if the whole world forgets him, you must never forget.
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