[ CW ] Kill the writer in first-person narrative .

I wish Walter could be here. Or Agnes. Or even catty old Flora. Or Bennie, even though I barely remember what he looked like. But especially Walter. 
 
 So many years. So many loved ones. So many loved ones lost. A brother, to the Spanish Flu. Two cousins, one on an island in the Pacific, one the day after the landing on that beach in Normandy. Parents, to old age. Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, neighbors, enemies. Husband, beloved husband. One by one, they faded from my life. As I will fade. 
 
 They're taking turns, these progeny of mine. The doctors, nurses, and hospice workers speak to them in hushed tones. My time is nearly here. They've cried, they've laughed, they've told me that I've given them the gift of life, the gift of a good upbringing, the gift of love. They've told me I can let go. And now they wait. 
 
 The woman seated by my bed... Sandra? Too young. One of her daughters, most likely. Yes, the one who looks like Sandra, but with brown hair. Amanda, it is. Amanda will see me out of this world. She's a good kid. She'll be a good mother in a few months, judging by the swelling of her abdomen. Great-grandchild. Another generation. Part of me, but less a part of me than Amanda. One eighth mine. One eighth me. I'll live on, then, diluted and spread out across time and space. 
 
 Tears fill my eyes. Amanda - right, it's Amanda? - grasps my hand, the one not hooked up to the IV delivering painkillers directly into my bloodstream. She reaches up and brushes the hair from my forehead. Hair. It used to be brown, thick, curly. I have n't seen it in weeks. 
 
 I remember my grandmother's death. I did n't understand. None of them understand now. My flame is going out. I wo n't exist. I leave them behind, but a memory of a flame is not a flame. This girl, this woman, Amanda, sits next to me to comfort me, but this is a solitary event. She is comfort, company, companionship... but I am alone. 
 
 I love them all. 
 
 `` I know. We know,'' Amanda replies. Had I spoken? Good. 
 
 Darkness. My eyes must have closed. Or I've lost sight. Sounds fade. I taste nothing. I smell nothing. 
 
 I only feel Amanda's hand, grasping mine. If I can still feel her, I am still alive. 
 
 I'm not ready. We're never ready. I'm ready. 
 
 Amanda fades and it is just me.
