Been and gone

Standing, listening, unable to look away, to mutter practiced words of comfort, not sure how to leave. He’s dying in that hospital bed. A son holds his hand, crying, trying not to be embarrassed of his tears for the gray crusty man gasping there on the bed. His hair and beard have long been gray, but now his skin matches. There isn’t anything left to be done but wait. Oxygen in, piss out, morphine drip. Hope is gone. His wife is already a widow, waiting to grieve.

I said nothing. I squeezed his wife's hand, bowed my head, and walked out into the night. He was gone by morning. 

Less than four weeks from diagnosis to death. Husband, father, grandfather, friend, chain smoker, mechanic, grump, perfectionist, cancer-ridden. Gone, and we are poorer for it.