Sarah stood by Daniel’s bed and held his warm hand, it wouldn’t be so for long . The carer had opened a window and the breeze blew down cards family members had sent him, wishing him Happy Birthday. The years he’d lived and the things he’d seen. Daniel died peacefully in his sleep.
Daniel’s skin was baby soft to the touch. He had good face, a face that made you want to smile. He had been a great grandfather, a grandfather and a father. He was on the other side now, however, and would be remembered for all the things he had meant to loved ones, and for so much more.
Daniel had fought in the war, he’d been an engineer, he’d been keen on singing and liked to get everyone around a piano when he could. He’d liked a pint of bitter and wouldn’t give you a spit for Champagne. He loved to garden.
Daniel was the one everyone went to, when emotional stability was called for, the person needed when life became turbulent. He was wise and loving. His son Callum called him an emotional balm. When Callum came out, Daniel said that the only queer people were those who didn’t love anybody. Acceptance was what Daniel stood for. Being yourself and being kind, that’s what he instilled in his family and that’s what Sarah stood for too.
Sarah had gone before him, of ovarian cancer. The womb that bore them three wonderful children, also took her from him. Sarah had come to take Daniel with her now though. She stood by his bed as he drifted off, the time had come.
“I hoped you would die this way,” Sarah whispered, as they both departed through the window, souls embracing, a flicker of light, a spec of glorious dust.
(c) Liz Breen