I flew to Chicago to hold her hand, but when I reached for it, tubes, tape, and a stent were in the way. I held the area above her wrist instead. Her skin was dry and hot with fever. “Elissa, It’s Beth. I’m so happy to see you.” She opened one eye. Then she made “that” expression, her precursor to a belly laugh, spiked with a gentle cry. Unable to speak, she told me she was happy to see me, too. It was ten days before she died at 29 and she was still giving. Elissa burned warmer than fever.
Beth Kanter writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and a ridiculous number of sticky notes that line the bottom of her computer monitor. Visit her at www.bethkanter.com and on Twitter and Instagram @beekaekae.