My day and night will always start and end with her sweet image on my mind, and her name upon my lips. How has so much time passed, yet most of the time it still feels like yesterday.

Am I to be forever haunted by how she looked at the hospital? Will I forever feel the coldness slowly seep its way up her fingers? I remember so clearly holding her hand, our fingers interlaced, then gradually through my shock and grief, I could feel her fingertips growing colder, and colder.

Yet I still held her hand. As if, by holding her hand I was holding onto her, denying death, clinging to her hand. Like a cosmic battle over who would win her in the end.

But you can’t battle death, for it will always win. After the coroner came, she asked us to step out of the room for a little while. And so I let go of my daughter’s hand.

Only to find upon our return, to have a last look, give a kiss to her soft lips. And the very last thing, to hold her hand one last time….but time had made changes to her in the time that we were away, because when I went to hold her hand one more time, I found that her hand had closed in on itself, as if making a fist.

Rigourmortis had claimed her hand, and now I would never hold my daughter’s hand again in my lifetime. Now I can only wait, for time to hurry past, and age Tony and I ever so much more quickly. For I long to once again hold my child’s hand.

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