After that first visit to the hospital, things gradually went downhill. Bit by bit, Kaylee forgot things about me, about us, about our family. And yet, every night, and every morning, we'd tell each other stories of our lives—or sometimes, on the days when it was harder for her to remember anything, what could have been our lives in a parallel universe—and we'd laugh and remind each other of how much we loved each other.
We never talked about her head injury (and its possibly fatal side effects), her memory loss, or the accident after that first night. We only talked about the good times. It was hard at first, because the giant elephant in the room never seemed to completely go away; but eventually I welcomed the feeling of security that came along with not talking about it. The feeling that maybe things truly would be okay in the end.
That maybe, just maybe, Kaylee would stay our living, breathing miracle for years, and years, and years . . .
But not every miracle lasts forever.
