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.
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.