You are holding her the exact way I used to hold her when there was thunder. Both arms. Chin on the top of her head. I thought you forgot how to do that.
The room smells sharp and wrong and there is a metal table and you keep petting the same spot on her back, over and over, like your hand can't stop. She is shaking. You are not telling her it's okay in the fake voice grown-ups use. You are telling her the true things. You are telling her she was the best one. You mean it.
I remember when we picked her. You were smaller than me, almost. You promised you would take care of her forever. Forever felt easy then, like a word you could just say.
You didn't get her a castle or teach her to talk like we planned. But look at your hands. Look how gentle. You learned the harder thing, the thing I didn't know yet, which is that taking care of somebody forever sometimes means being brave in the room that smells like this.
She is looking at you and not the door. She still thinks you can fix anything.
So do I, a little.
Whatever happens next, you're going to stay, right? You're going to stay right there with your chin on her head until the very last second?
Yeah. I knew you would.
I'm glad it was you she got.