Final Words, by Marjan Sierhuis

He lies on the hospital bed. I reach for his hands. They are cold. I cover him with a warm blanket.

He is dying. That is what he wants. He says he is ready. He wants no heroics.

His face is pale and clammy. His lips are purple and dry.

He whispers.

I bend over to hear his words. They are muffled.

I lean back and study every nuance of his facial expression. I see a flicker of an eyelid.

I try to catch a tear that rolls down his cheek.

I reach for a tissue. I am too late.