He lies on his deathbed,

a shivering mess of a man.

With one hand, he grapples the sheets,

tucking them under his chin.

He entrusts me with the other,

placing it in my hands.

I can see his soul oozing out of his forehead, his cheeks,

and his brows in preparation for what is to come.

Some of it sticks to my hands,

trying half-heartedly to rebel.

Before the light dies away from his eyes,

I read in them his regrets, his wishes,

his memories, and his apologies.

I now understand why

he's holding on to life with his fists,

promising to finally live the life that he dreamed about.

He looks at me, his son,

eyes never wavering as he says,

"Here it comes."

And when death does arrive, my father

closes his eyes in defeat, his body going limp as

his hand slackens around the sheets.

I sit beside his bed, kneeling on sore knees,

until his hand, filled with wishes and dreams,

grows cold.