My dad and I drive three hours up to Boston primarily to pick my brother up from his job. It turns out that this primarily consists of us waiting around.
The woman shuffles out of the exit about a half hour before my brother does. She is struggling with two of the biggest rolling suitcases I’ve ever seen, in addition to the three large tote bags that weigh down her arms.
I notice her passively as she stops to collect herself in front of the bench we’re sitting on, almost as if I am watching her through a TV screen.
And then I see my dad, walking over to her, asking her if she needs help, taking half her load, and following her down the street to the bus. It is a simple gesture, but for those few minutes, he was able to make someone else’s life better—and doesn’t that still mean something?
So I want to scream at the doctors that they must be mistaken, because there can’t possibly be anything wrong with a heart that big.
I am making promises that I’m not sure if I can keep. That I won’t worry. That I’ll stop liking him too much. That I’ll keep in touch better. That I won’t wear my expensive-looking watch. That I’ll be back by May. That I’ll always be safe.
I am leaving tomorrow. Promise me that you’ll still be here when I come back.