when it's time

In his last few hours, he has grown young, again. He sees things the way they used to be, the way they once were. There’s too much to recall, but, now, here, there’s Ray and Hank, old army buddies, in fatigues, bare-chested, smiling, sharing a smoke. Ray was a comic; Hank was a pistol. Ray was shot down over Ploesti. Hank, too. He’s missed them for a long, long time. There’s Mindy, now, too, his first love, his very first. She’s a picture of life, of beauty. Her smile is incandescent. Always was. He wanted to marry her, but never asked. She got tired of waiting, moved to Dallas, became a successful doctor. Never married. Over there is Biff, his favorite dog. A mutt, Heinz 57 variety. He pulled Biff in off the street one bitterly cold, gusty Christmas night, all fur and bones. Biff spent the next 13 years with him, ‘til he fell asleep one night at his feet and never woke. He sees his children, too, now, all four of them. This is the way he’d wanted it to be when it was time – seeing them all, like this, together, by him. Mary, the youngest girl, says, “We love you, dad. You were a good father.” He nods, imperceptibly, and closes his eyes, relaxes his entire body, smiles. It is time. No need to hold on any longer. It is time.