If I could've said goodbye to you, I'd have it all planned out. I wouldn't have wanted it to be forgotten or something I didn't know might be the last.

I'd go visit you with dad and sit on the couch beside grandma. You'd sit across from us at your usual spot at the other couch to my right. Dad would be in the kitchen, making us breakfast, and you'd stare at me constantly, trying to remember who I was. But instead of only daring to glance at your direction and then immediately look away as soon as our eyes met, I'd stare back and never look away.

We'd eat together in silence, the three of us around the small dining room table – well, not really a room, since the living room was three steps away with no door in between. Dad would stand in the kitchen because there were only three seats around the wooden square table at your and grandma's home. He'd eat bites of what was left and ask us if we wanted more.

Back to the couches; now with the TV on, with the only channel it had – the news. Grandma would watch the morning announcements of the day, trying to be interested or falling asleep, and you would do the same. I'd watch your little round pale-brown eyes gently close and open shortly after your quick snooze. Sometimes I can't help but wonder if I got my eyes from you, but sadly remember how mine are big and dark. Then I realize that grandma's eyes were the ones that were small. Now I can’t remember what your eyes look like. I should've stared at them more when you were still here.

In that same quiet visit, after dad and I would go to the supermarket and buy some food, and after we'd go to the drug store for your and grandma's pills, I'd get back in the house with dad, but this time sit by you. You'd recognize me and slightly smile at the attention. I'd smile back, then reach out my hand and hold on to yours. You'd squeeze it as I squeezed back and we'd sit there together and watch the afternoon news.

Later that day, I'd go to your room and stare at your personal library with envy and wonderment. I'd pick one of the dusty books on the shelf, go back to where you were and show you what I've found. You would've taken the book and told me all about it as if you had read it yesterday. I would've listened, intrigued by everything you've said; even if I didn't understand it all. I'd nod and ask questions, read a chapter or two, and then put it away and pick out a different book I found.

After several book – or maybe just three or four – dad would've been the one to rush me for a change as I insisted we'd stay only a few minutes longer. But after a few times I'd ask, I'd accept the fact that we had to go home. I'd put the books away and when I returned you'd get up from your seat and hug me goodbye. I'd kiss you on your scratchy, slightly-bearded cheek and you'd kiss me on my cheek too. I'd whisper 'I love you', so that neither dad or grandma would hear – only you. You'd say it back – and that I was your favorite grandchild, perhaps – and then watch dad and I leave as I slowly closed the door to your home.

Ever since things have gotten strange and your health had declined, I never got a chance to say goodbye. I knew that day would come, where if I wouldn't have the guts to hug you or smile at you or sit by you one last time, I'd regret it forever. And I do. But there's nothing I can change, because I never knew that the very last chance I had was seven months ago today, when we visited for the holidays, and I watched you leave to your bedroom without saying a word. That was our goodbye, and I didn't even realize.

If you had a chance to say goodbye to the loved one you lost, how would it go?