An old man
Lies helplessly
On his mattress,
Covered by darkness
And filled with grief.

A young man,
His son,
Stands next to him,
His arm outstretched,
Gripping his father's lanky fingers.

The son glances at him
Half-expecting his dad
To say something,
Yet all the old man can do
Is close his eyes.

His breathing stops.

His vision goes black.
Yet, somehow,
Through the darkness,
Shines a light, so bright in view,
So welcoming in presence.

He is transported to a green meadow,
Filled with black roses,
That beckon him to move ahead,
To let go
Of the past.

Hesitantly he stands,
Takes a deep breath, and,
Tilting his head toward the sky,
Frowns reluctantly.

He looks ahead,
Staring at his fleeting past.
He takes a step through his childhood,
Through his adolescence,
Through his adulthood,
Through his marriage,
Through the birth of his child,
Through the death of his lover.

He reaches the end,
The future made only of light.
He looks behind him once more,
Unsure about letting go.

His memories become distant.
They dissolve into the fine air
And dissipate like vapor,
Until all that remains
Is the green grass below them.

He looks at the light,
As it becomes more welcoming
Than ever.
He weeps for a moment,
And steps inside.