He is old. He spends his days staring, catatonic, out of a small window in the corner of the room- not lost in thought- just lost. He has managed to cram a lifetime of experiences into a few short years, but now he is old. He knows his time is coming and grappling with that has been difficult. However, he realized some time ago that it didn’t matter. Coming to terms with his own death would not make it any less likely to occur. Whether angry or content, death will come nonetheless. So, he spends his days feeling nothing at all: sitting, staring, numb.

“Mr. Larson,” a woman’s singsong voice gently reached his ears, as if through a film of empty sound, “there’s someone here to see you.” He turned slowly, his eyes vaguely registering a man he didn’t recognize. Dressed in a thick black blazer to fight off the frigid December air, the man carried a small bouquet of flowers and a world of pain on his shoulders.”Hi Dad,” the man said with a sad smile. “The doctors tell me that you haven’t been eating.” Why waste the food, he thought turning his attention back to the window. He changed his mind. He wasn’t numb, he was bitter. As ineffective as it was in changing his situation, he was angry. He was angry at death for coming too soon, angry at the world for working this way, but most of all, he was angry at her for not being here.

Her’s is the only face he still remembers. Although her name remains a mystery, her face is still as vivid as the first day he met her: sharp blue eyes crinkling around the edges, a gentle smile, and thin wispy hair falling in layers to her shoulders. Beautiful. Yet, despite the numerous visits by his mysterious son, (whose face seemed to change each time)  she had never come to see him.

“Dad?” His son’s voice jarred him from his thoughts. “Dad you have to eat. The doctor’s are doing everything they can but they can’t make you-”

“Where is she?” He asked.

“What?”

“Wh-where?”

“Dad I-” the man’s voice shook, “she’s- Dad, just eat okay, for me,” he paused, his voice shattering as he said his next words, “for her.”

The man stayed for a few moments longer, holding his father’s hand and following his gaze out of the window. The man understood the finality of his visit. He knew that his father was not long for the world, and bitterness and anger filled him as well.

Soon after the man left, Mr. Larson fell. He moved between the present and the past, allowing himself to slip into the memories he had lost long ago. He can see the man, his son, just a boy now. He can feel his name bouncing through his mind: Alexander, Alex. He can see Alex’s smile, hear his laugh. And then, he sees her. Haloed in light, she stands before him shrouded in a white ankle-length wrap. She smiles the same smile he knew so well, calling to him with an allure as pure as it is strong. She is extending an olive branch to his struggle, begging him to join her and escape the pain of mortal life. Her love radiates from her sharp blue eyes. Finally, her name comes to him, and it dances on his lips, tasting as sweet as a summer’s breeze.

He was wrong. It did matter. He must be at peace with his death, only then could he go. His life was a never-ending struggle that could only be released with his permission. He must let go. The bitterness fell away and he was content, happy. With his wife’s name playing like music in his ears, he smiled the slightest smile, his eyes closed. And he was young again.