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I’ve been writing up a draft for the past two days and came up with this, but I feel like it’s not dramatic enough and that it’s kinda bland. After reading @julia‘s draft though, hers sounds a lot better, and I think we should go with hers. I’ll post my draft here though just in case anyone wants to take anything from it or use it on the doc.

“Mommy, look. There it is. ‘Patient Room 304.’” I hold little Abby’s hand in mine. “Yes, sweetie. That’s the one.” Stepping in front of the door, I halt with my little daughter by my side. A minute passes before her sweet voice asks, “Mommy, what’s wrong?” My baby Abby gazes up into my hazel eyes, and I gaze down into hers. The pulse in my hand grows and fades, grows and fades and throbs stronger and stronger with each passing moment. My calm face suddenly softens into a face of worry as I stare into hers, and I grasp her plump hand slightly tighter. Heat emanates from her soft palm and flows through my cold fingers. A simple touch, a simple warmth, a simple squeeze—her tiny hand in mine is so precious, so soothing. “It—It’s nothing, sweetie. Now, remember. We must be very quiet. Can you do that for me?” Abby bobs her little head up and down, her thin bangs flopping in unison. As I lay my hand upon the cold handle of the door, I let out a deep sigh and then gently push it open. At the back of the room, the dying evening sun reaches its hands through a wide glass window and teases through the short silver hairs of the head of an elderly lady in her mid-eighties. She is resting so peacefully, so quietly, that the room seems to have stopped in time, as if the dying sun splashed the room in yellow paint and framed it in a sepia photograph. The only other movement is the specks of dust that dance in the sun’s stream and float past the closed silver lashes of my grandmother. My eyes travel down from her silver lashes to the lines on the outer edges of her eyes. Many wrinkles meander through her scrawny face all the way down to her neck and disappear beneath the collar of her hospital gown. But then the rivulets of wrinkles reappear upon the emaciated figure of her hands. Oh, so frail, so tender! She is all skin and bones! I pull a chair close to her bed and sit little Abby upon my lap so as not to let her see my tears cascading down my burning cheeks. My hands travel toward my grandmother’s, which are folded upon her abdomen. Veins run very visibly beneath her skin and crawl all the way to the tips of her fingers. I rest my hand on top of hers, and the coolness of her hands send shivers down my spine. I gently squeeze her hand under mine, just lightly enough as to not wake her but firmly enough to allow my heat to emanate into her. As my heat floods into her hands, feelings of pain, worry, and longing flood into my heart. I’ll miss these hands, her hands, my grandmother’s hands. Though her hands are so wrinkled and scrawny now, they are just as beautiful as they were so many years back, not because of their appearance but because of everything these hands did. Her simple touch, her simple warmth, her simple squeeze. I remember it all. B when I was younger, I took it all for granted. Who knew that the warm, tender embrace of these hands would become my favorite in the whole wide world? Who knew that these hands, that cooked me my favorite chicken potpie, would one day cease to ever do so again? Had I realized earlier that these hands that always cared for others, would soon itself need to be cared for, would I still have pushed these hands away? Would I still have abused these hands—and run away from home? These hands that tried to keep me from harm’s way, that tried to shield me, protect me, were the only ones to sacrifice themselves for me when no one else would—not even my own parents. Had I only accepted these hands’ help and loved these hands more before her health slipped away, could I have been—a better granddaughter? My heart clenches violently inside my chest, and a startling sniffle escapes me. Little Abby, who’s still sitting on my lap, hears my sniffle behind her and twists her body to face me. She doesn’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what to do. But she lifts that plump little hand of hers and places it on top of my own, melting me into more tears and more memories of my grandmother and her warm touch. In the heat of the moment, a hand suddenly slips out from under mine and gently rests itself on top of Abby’s and my own. “G-Grandma!” I stutter. Tears continue cascading down my cheeks as years of distance slowly melt away with the simple touch, the simple warmth, the simple squeeze of her tender hand. Oh, how I’ll miss these beautiful hands.