The Echo

They say there are two deaths for every person: the first, which happens when they take their last breath and leave this mortal coil. The second is when their name is breathed for the final time.

But for many, this is not the only deaths; indeed, there is one more. The moment their mind is no longer, yet their body moves on.

It’s not that they are no longer a person. Indeed, they think, believe, and laugh. Arguably, that makes it so much worse. It’s that they are not THAT person. The one you knew, shared with, dreamed with.

That person is gone, and what is left is a fraction of them, a shell around which there was formerly a soul. They have become an echo.

For some, it’s a gradual change, a slip or stutter. For others, quite sudden, a person you formerly knew becoming no more in the blink of an eye, as though they escaped like air through an open window.

For an echo, the pain continues onward; it doesn’t cease or ease with time. Because an echo is a constant reminder, one that needs time, love, patience, and care. All without acknowledgment, understanding, value, or want.

An echo causes chaos, rifts, and sorrow, all while understanding none of it, both being at fault and without, a superposition caused by an illness that takes many faces and names.

An echo can ask questions, can seem to have interest, can even seem lucid. But then they are gone once again, leaving just the hollow, empty words.

But even though you’re an echo, and spend each day as though it’s the same. I’ll echo to you what I think each day. I love you more than anything; my life you did bring. Even if you don’t know it, even if you can’t see. Today, until you leave this earth, your caregiver I will be.