If I Lose Her

by Greg Joseph Daily

  “Oh, my baby girl,” he whispered. “I am so sorry I couldn’t take this all away. I love you so much. I’ll miss you so much. But, it’s time for you to go. You don’t have to hold on for us any more. You don’t have to be strong for us any more. Just let go. Let go baby, just let go.”

  I leaned against the wall and waited. A few minutes later he came out and patted my shoulder.

  I wiped the tears from Jo’s forehead and sat looking at her.

  “There’s so much I wish I could tell you,” I said taking her hand. “You were by far the best part of me. The best choice I ever made. If I could climb to heaven and plead with God to let you live I would, but I am not strong enough. I don’t know the way. There’s so much I wish we could have done together, so many places I wish we could have seen. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you know that I will love you for the rest of my life. I will never forget you. I swear that if I live to see my 80th birthday I will still look back and remember how you were the best thing that had ever happened to me. I love you so much more than I ever knew was possible. Good night my love. Sleep well.”

  Then I kissed her hand and climbed into bed next to her. I gently laid my hand on her chest so that I could feel her breath as I walked down that long corridor of slumber. I wanted to feel her moving for as long as possible. Then I was gone.

  As I began to wake the next morning I slid my hand across the sheets when I realized that there was no one lying in the bed next to me.

  They’ve taken her!

  I panicked and sat straight up. Then I turned.

  Jo was sitting next to the window listening to the birds singing in the back yard.

  She turned and looked at me with a smile.

  “Hey you,” she said.

  Thirty-Five

  Five years have passed since that morning when I saw your mother awake, sitting by the window, listening to the birds sing their morning song, and right now you’re barely old enough to talk. But, I wanted you to know something of the stories behind the photographs in this album, something about your mother; something that she couldn’t tell you herself.

  There will be more photographs, but they will be your photographs.

  These were mine.