The old man knew he was lucky

and that was enough. His bed was hard, like a prison bed

or so he imagined. He was going to leave life forever

and fly the coop. He had a nice wife. She brought him a rose, each morning with pancakes,

although, he couldn’t eat them. The cancer was eating him. Funny, that he wasn’t hungry, but the cancer was.

Fred smiled.

His eyes closed.

His wife cried.

He was lucky.

Then,

he wasn’t there.

11 thoughts on “Death, and Pancakes”

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