I was "peaches and cream" skin and red tufts of hair to him,
Held in his young dad arms.
He was first teacher, first love, first hero, first god;
Until a 16 year old bride, I broke his heart.
Just to feel fully life away from his carefully constructed safe haven.
Life chewed and scratched and lied to this bundle of joy.
Then, there he was...
Surgery battered head shaven.
Frankenstein scar ripping across the side of his head,
Where the battle of glioblastoma multiform was waged and lost.
Wheelchair bound,
He sat slumped over world weary.
I walked toward him,
Called to him.
Heavy head lifted,
Eyes fire sparked,
Smile heart-warmed spread.
Weakened dad arms reached for me.
I ache-bent down.
Shaky, warm hands
Held my face to his own.
"My Scooter girl!", he gently breathed in my ear.
Sweet kiss on my cheek I still feel.
Aphasia, thief of words, did not rob me that day.
Warm tears fall even now.
Blur days after.
One more battle with the surgeon's scalpel.
Silent night in hospice,
Him and I.
I talked.
He listened, comatose yet breaths in a pant.
Is he running in his mind?
Is it to or from something?
Breaths slowed.
Breaths ended.
I held him.
My first teacher, my first love, my first hero, my first god...
He was there for my first breath.
I was there for his last.

This poem is about: 
My family


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