Empty Chair
Everything’s limited.
Our senses for example. We can’t see until a certain range, we can only hear certain wavelengths, we can’t touch until a certain point. Even the galaxy is limited. While all of this applies, what’s always limited is information.
My unsupported and probably impractical theory is that the human mind is only capable of holding so much information before there isn’t anymore room left- and while we don’t know much about neurology yet, I believe that once people get to the point where they can’t store any more information, inevitably, they end. Or rather they pour out; sometimes out of your eyes, through fingertips onto paper or simply through actions. However, it’s exasperating when your only source of information denies all of your questions.
Baba (who goes by the name Jimmy only by his closest friends) has not been himself lately. He’s much weaker now. Now I know you’re thinking: “Well, duh, that’s the effect of aging.” But no. No this is different. The cries of my hero mix with ambulance sirens and I watch as  tears roll down his cheek. It’s a scene that alters a person in ways that they couldn’t imagine. However, all of the tears that escape his tired eyes would never wash away his tough and hardworking character. The cries of his pain would never drown out the hazy memories of his kind laughter.
Now how would I know what’s going on? Ask the nurse? Ask my mom? Should I ask him myself? Well none of these worked because nobody would provide a young girl with need-to-know information. In their eyes I’m just inexperienced. My chocolatey-brown eyes wide with curiosity, my lips painted pale pink. A girl only 4 feet, 11 inches off the ground does not deserve to understand what is happening to the most important person in her life.
I guess I’ll just have to search up his symptoms while the only source of information is my own eyes. And when all the sources point to a certain illness, horrifying ideas that I never thought would visit would pop into my mind. I start to think of what it would be like to step into the house and see baba’s chair empty. I start to plan my future while praying that he would still be there. Sitting in that chair where memories were made. Memories of movie night and jokes that filled whole room with laughter, when weekends were spent with games and competitions and family talks. Where he would sit me down and ask me why I looked so worried, “I’m fine Baba” I would always reply, but his gentle hands would stroke mine. “I want you to always be happy” he states while I look down at his fingers, each wrinkle an everlasting memory of his selfless ways of helping others at the hospital, and never having time for himself. How can he not know that my happiness is defined by him? “I am happy baba” while I think of a list of reasons in my head that contradicts what I just said. He takes me in his arms and hugs me, I feel his muscles tighten, then loosen after a while, I hug him tighter, hoping to stay in his arms forever.   
  “Some things are better left unsaid,” my mom states. But I refuse to believe and I demand an explanation that is never delivered . And as the weeks went on “check-ups” become daily visits to the doctor and treatments sent to the house become normal. The disbelief of such a thing happening blocks my view.
With every strand of hair that falls off my hero’s head, I get closer and closer to my end. Not from too much information, but the lack of it.
Everything exists in a limited quantity and we just learn to live with it.