by Julie Williams

Death came softly. It’s not like we weren’t expecting it, but sitting on the edge of his bed, I’d watched Stan’s life slip away, one slow breath at a time. I looked at his wonderful face, full of faint lines etched from years of laughter and love, and thought of the last joke we’d shared, the last time he smiled and said, “I love you, Starshine”. Now he looked asleep---not gone. He might open his eyes any moment, smile at me one more time.

The sense of him, the who-and-what he was, didn’t feel gone. How could he be gone? I held his gentle hand between mine, and slowly traced figure eights across the knuckles and thought of the strength and caring in his hands. Stan could put his whole heart into even the briefest touch. I couldn’t let go. I just couldn’t! Tears broke past the edges of my soul, threatening to sweep me past this last moment of sharing with him. I gulped in a couple of deep breaths and held on tighter to his cooling hand. Just a few more minutes, please! I’m not ready yet.

I could feel the chill of winter slipping in as the last weak rays of the January sun fled into the woods. Dusk and a sense of aloneness overtook the room. I could almost hear his voice, quiet and warm in my ear. “It’s time to go, dear. It’ll be okay. Remember, I won’t be far.” But I wondered, as warm tears filled my eyes, if feeling him, hearing him, believing in that—-if it might last. I hoped so. I didn’t want that belief, that sense of him, to ever really stop. Julie Williams (c) 2005 Published by Grief Digest