Author The Lions' Pride Newspaper

I am sitting in an uncomfortable wooden dinning chair. It doesn’t matter that I am at the hospice off of Clinton Road. It doesn’t matter that I am grieving. Mat is next to me, lying in a hospital bed sleeping. His breathing is despondent. Suck in, breathe out. His skin is a soft shade of canary yellow. Suck in, breathe out. His cat Sequil is lying in-between his legs; his mala beaded necklace that hung around his neck lies limp on his chest. His mother is skimming through pictures on her phone of Mathew. I wait for him to start singing, carry a tune on his lips like he always did, but I know that he cannot sing anymore. I start to sing one of his songs from his band Nameless Grace in my head instead. I’m saying goodbye to Sharon. I’m saying goodbye. I’m saying goodbye. A tear starts to form, but I hold it back. Mat’s mom has made it clear- no crying in front of Mat. So I get up and walk out into the seating area in the main hall. I sit down in one of the worn out blue couches. A brick sits on a counter nearby. It reads: “Name of Veteran Goes Here.”