A Young Man

A Young Man's Remorse with Dying


He knew that he was dying. And he wanted to tell her all the things he wished she would know. But the room was bright and so he could see no angels and though his feet were not yet burning, he could sense in his shoulders, the coming of rain.

She had come as a calloused angel, beautiful. Vulnerable. That he thought he could repair and save, time showed that he was the broken man who could not follow the way. The cross was far too heavy for a world he could not save. His skin still burned in the mornings.

She had not come and he expected that. Two of his sons had come by, but their lives were busy now. He knew better and so he asked, but they were as deceived as everyone else and so he had to rely on nurses. His daughter was in Europe studying dance.
He called no clergymen because they were mostly skilled, self realized and full of words but no substance. Jesus knew this. He said this. He taught this. The kingdom he preached. And so, he waited, And he wondered if she really knew, had she ever known him or had he only hoped?

That night, he dreamed of typical things, fields, trees and the person whose back you only see but never his face.
And he awoke to the same anxiety and the same prayer for relief, but now there was morphine so the prayer did not last long.
He longed for his children's childhoods. And mourned the loss of it all. But he believed that something better is coming, like morphine, but better, something permanent.

He no longer believed in darkness, but still he mourned, the lack of communication and what he thought he had found.
Peace and he longed to tell her, but she was too hurt and had long ago said goodbye. So, reluctantly he breathed.