Hospitals have always fucked me up. To begin my life, I was born in one. My grandma would always tell me this story, I don’t know what her reasoning behind it was, but quite frequently she’d sit me down on her lap, or when I got too big I’d just sit down beside her. We’d sit in the living, she’d hold an old picture frame. She would cry for a few minutes before moving on to the start of the story.

“Baby,” she would always start with. “Your grandpa and I were sitting in the waiting room, waiting for you to be born. You were going to be our pride and joy, you know? Your mother had tried so many times to give us our grandbaby, and when they announced you, grandpa and I were off the walls.” She would stop to stare down at the picture for a few minutes, smiling as her fingers ran over the person sitting beside her.

“Grandpa started feeling unwell there. You were far from here, so we stepped down to talk to another doctor about how he was feeling. His left arm was hurting him really bad, and he didn’t have much breath. The last memory I have of your grandpa was them wheeling him away to treat his oncoming heart attack.” She would shake her head at this point, covering her mouth every time.

“Grandpa died at 7:42 in the evening, and we welcomed you at 7:54, just a few minutes later. His funeral was also your first introduction to the world. That’s where we showed you off, to everyone.” She’d begin stroking my face now, always very fragile. Like any moment she too would break.

“You have his smile, you know. That little tooth gap you have, no one else but grandpa had it. When I look at you, I think about him. He was the love of my life, I guess he still is. You’re a close second, baby.”