Going home

Peter’s breathing slowed, his eyes half-closed. His pale face blended right in with the rest of the room - the white sheets, white walls, my white coat. I disposed of the needle, its weight feeling different in my hands. Pulling a chair to the bedside, I asked, “How are you feeling, Peter?”

His wrinkled face morphed into a smile as he whispered, “Never been better, Doc”.

Seconds of silence passed. I saw his smile falter and his face twist. “Everything alright?”, I asked.

His eyes shifted to me. “What happens when we die?”

I sighed and placed my hand over his. “I would like to believe we meet our loved ones again. But I am not sure, Peter.”

“Of course you’re not sure,” he huffed out a chuckle, “I’m the one on death’s door after all.” He fixed his eyes on a point behind me. “I can’t wait to see her.”

I could almost see the memories flooding in his eyes as they gently closed. Glancing at the monitor, I whispered, “Just hold that happy thought, Peter…”