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.
His eyes closed.
His wife cried.
He was lucky.
he wasn’t there.