I made peace with your death
He had soft uncalloused hands for someone his age. He was 89 with the childish innocence of an 8 year old, and the spontaneity of a toddler who did not hesitate before letting out a chuckle. My last memory with him is of me sitting beside him while he lay in bed, with his eyes closed, while I gently stroked his hands, attempting to reassure him that the suffering would be over soon, wondering whether or not I truly believed that. Both of us, him and I, needed the faith to believe that he'd be better soon, be able to remember faces of his friends and peers, people that he'd met every day, for the past four scores of his life. His memory was starting to fade, but, not his instinct. He couldn't remember names of his visitors, but, he had a smile across his face when his son walked in. His saviour was here. He trusted the eyes of his son, forever strong and caring. He believed that love could heal his pain. What he couldn't see was the fading faith in his son’s eyes.