It starts. Slow. A whimper
That echoes through the oxygen mask
But barely audible to me.
He grabs at anything - everything
Trying to hold onto something from this world.
His grip is icy and frozen. His knuckles,
Bone showing through his paper thin skin
No meat under the wrinkled leather.

He relents. He knows.
It's time to go.
His eyes watery - two black pools
Widening at first in despair,
Then dilating with forgiveness. With resignation.
With acceptance?
He draws deep long breaths.
He stops feeling everything. No pain or fear
Except the heavy burden on his chest
Of regret - of who he’s left behind.

He was a son, a husband, a father.
To a mother. A wife. A child.
And now he is walking
Through the gates one last time. I know.
As I hold his hand
Because at the end
He doesn't want to be alone.