The Hospice

The room was quiet. No one said a word. He laid there in the bed having his brown hair combed by a nurse, his face was shaved, and there was no expression. He had none at all. Just tubes tied to his arms and oxygen pumped into his nose. He seemed at peace.

His brother tried to open his tightly held fist. Tried to slip a finger into the fold. It was of no use. His fist was stronger than the jawbone of an ass; firm. It was that of a fighter.

And he’d close his eyes every once in awhile. Then he’d open them, look around the room, close em again. His body was tired, he needed rest; a long sleep like his mom and dad before him. They had passed two years ago, he figured it was his turn.

But, nobody knew what he was thinking. He remained silent. His last request was to not resuscitate. He was ready for heaven. He was ready for peace.

He talked the week before. Said he saw mom and dad at his bedside. I reckon that’s his truth. Who am I to question. A man’s final days are just that, his final days. I was not gonna get in his way.

The body tells us when it’s time. The soul separates. Leaving behind a shell. I kissed his forehead and told him, see you around kid. His eyes closed. Oh the dreams he must’ve had.

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