A familiar feeling gnaws at my gut. My ribs are tightly bound, only allowing me to take tiny, quick breaths. It’s the paper cut along sensitive skin, an unwanted reminder. It feels like nothing but guilt. Greedy, time-consuming guilt. I am alive, and she isn’t. I wasn’t there when she needed me. I could not save her. If we switched positions, like the many times I begged for, Rosemary’s life would be in full color. She would have made the most of every breath, every day. Turned even the worst moments into something beautiful, because that’s what she did. She was a beautiful existence.
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