I cleaned your room for you. Remember how you had that slumber party before going in for the transplant? You left your room a mess. Not that that was anything new. So I went up one day and cleaned the entire room. It was big and I was so proud of how nice it looked when I was done. I imagined your surprise over and over in my mind and it thrilled me. I couldn't wait for you to see it.
You never did.
And, after you died, I was devastated that I would never get to show you what I had done for you. And, I was sad that I had moved and changed that last things you had touched. It felt wrong to have done that.
The day we moved to the new house, Ana and I were up in what was your room. Ana was crying and I was trying to comfort her. And all of a sudden, I said out loud: "I cleaned his room. I cleaned his room. It was supposed to be a surprise." And I burst into tears. I cried for you, and for me, and for my 11-year old dreams. We lost so much the day you left us.
Can I tell you a secret? When I was younger, I thought that if I hadn't been so hopeful, if I hadn't cleaned your room, if I hadn't dreamed about you coming home to see it, you never would have died. I worried that because I had been too eager, because I had loved you too much, your death had become inevitable. Something like foreshadowing in the movies when everything is going so well that you know the worst is on its way. It's silly, I know, and many might even think it's unreasonable. But, I still worry. It scares me to love people too much. Because I remember you, and I'm terrified that they'll leave me too.