YOU WERE ALWAYS REAL, AND NOW SO IS IT...
I'd wake sometimes, in a sleepy hazy state, somewhere between falling asleep and waking the next morning, and wonder if you were really real.
If I really could be that lucky and happy.
I'd look over, and see you sleeping by my side, in our hotel bed.
Was I dreaming? Were you really there?
Every time, no matter how many times I'd woken with this sleepy thought before, I'd have to check, to know for sure.
So I'd reach over, and with a single finger, softly press into your arm.
And you were there. Warm and soft and real.
I was that lucky. You were there every time. Next to me. Mine.
And then I remember waking next to you, in our own home, after the (almost) year you'd spent in hospital, scared to look over to my side where you lay.
Was it real. Did it really happen. Maybe it was a dream. This time I really wanted it to be a dream and not really real at all.
I didn't want to look, to break the possibility of it just being a bad, bad dream.
Yet, as always, I had to know. I had to be sure. So I'd lift my head and look to one side, and there it was, always, your wheelchair.
You were always real, and now so is it...
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