Only in my Heart

            Ever since I’ve known him, Ira’s told me he wouldn’t live long. And ever since I’ve known him, I’ve refused to believe it, because I can’t imagine life without my best friend.

“Juney, could you hand me that water?” I jump at the chance to help him, stumbling over my own string-bean legs to get the glass off the bedside table. His shaking hands grab it, and he takes a sip. Water drips down his face, but I pretend not to notice. I curl up in the crunchy hospital chair, hugging my legs close to my chest and resting my chin on my knees. I pat down my crimson red hair and it scratches at my legs. I brush it back. Ira looks sadder than usual right now, his hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat. Ira’s eyes probably look saddest of all, though, brown and pleading. They’re always moist—he always seems to only  be one pinch away from crying. His limbs are pail and swollen, bruises from IV’s popping up on every inch of his body. His lips are chapped and bright red, like he’s just drunk a whole gallon of Kool-Aid. I can see every bone in his body through his tight-stretched skin, the color of the moon. I can tell that none of this is a good sign, but I try not to think about it.

“Juniper,” Suddenly, he’s sitting up. Hunched over and frail-looking, he smiles at me weakly. “Will you tell me a story, Juniper? Please?” The tears pool in the sockets of his eyes, but I ignore them. He’s just asking for another story, I think, no one said anything about it being his last. I’m known for my fantastic stories in the hospital. Before Ira was moved to a private room, he was in the Children’s Ward, and I would tell them all stories of dragons and love and knights and heroes.

“Sure, I. Any suggestions?” Ira rocks himself back into bed, and rests his head on the puffy white pillow.

“One about-about you and I. A story about us.” I bite my lip.

“Of course,” I say, and then I begin.

            The stars were strangely bright, I remember, one night during one summer of my life. My favorite thing to do with Ira was stare at the stars. We called it Night Gazing. In the summer, we had the most time for Night Gazing, because our parents didn’t need us and bed, and we didn’t need to be doing school things. So at around six every night, we’d head out to the big field in the middle of town with a towel and some grape soda, and we’d Night Gaze.

            “Ira,” I had said on that night where the stars were strangely bright “Ira, where do you suppose the idea of stars comes from?” And then he sat up, and his brown curls were glowing in the light of the stars, and I thought he looked just perfect.

“What are you asking?” I sat up with him, put my arms on my knees, and shrugged. He rolled his eyes. Ira sometimes did this. He never liked it when I didn’t know what I was asking a question for.  “You can be so…so dull sometimes, you know.” I shrugged again. Ira rolled his eyes again. Another thing he doesn’t like: when I don’t get upset when people make fun of me. “God, Juniper. Why don’t you ever stand up for yourself?” I begin to shrug, but stop myself. I open my mouth, to give him a real answer.

“I see no point in fighting, because no one ever really wins. Even when they think they do.” He turns onto his stomach and picks at the grass.

“Standing up for something is different than fighting, Juniper.” He mumbled. I army crawled across the towel and over to him. I looked at the side of his head. His ears were pink. I remember this because Ira’s ears only ever turn pink when he’s cold, and it was so warm that night.

“I don’t think it’s different. And maybe someday, when there is something to stand up for, that’s important enough, I will stand up. I will fight.” We flipped back over again, to where we had started. We both let out a long sigh, and he coughed.

“Would you stand up for me?” It was almost a whisper, like maybe he hadn’t meant for me to hear. But I answer anyway.

“Of course,” I paused, and stared into the stars until their brightness burned my eyes. “Would you for me?” He had chuckled a bit, and then he’d answered.

“I already do, June.”

“Oh. Right.” We had laughed for a while after that, not sure why either of us were laughing, really, because it wasn’t that funny. After a long silence, Ira spoke again.

“The stars sure are brighter than usual tonight, huh?” And we were back to our usual kind of conversation, as if the whole thing before had never happened.

“Yup.”

            “That was a wonderful story, June.” I nod and Ira coughs. A horrible kind of  cough. A cough that you can feel spreading through your whole body. A cough that could kill. At that thought, I close my eyes tight, and don’t open them, even as people rush in to check on him. Even as they wheel him out and away, to some other room, to make him better—to make him well. And as I’m thinking right now, with my eyes closed, my heart tied shut, the tears pushing themselves against the lids of my eyes, I’m thinking that maybe if I never open my eyes again, Ira will never die, because he will stay in my heart, and I will never have to live one day without my best friend. Because only in my heart will Ira live forever.