Right Brain: Echoes of loss

I come into your room every morning to try to wake you. I start by gently speaking your name and then say it loudly into your ear. I pinch your skin and press on your sternum but you still do not acknowledge me. I open your eyelids. You stare straight ahead, not moving to the sound of my voice. I always hope I will see your pupils react to the light when I flash it into your eyes; they do not. You don't cough or gag when I move the tubing into...