They are alone, again. How many times has he been with her with no other soul present? He does not know. He only knows that this will be the last time he gazes at her lovely face, a face he will miss and long for into eternity.
He strokes the soft brown hair, and wishes he could see her eyes, those beautiful eyes that used to spark with excitement when their gazes would meet. How he longs to see those beautiful brown orbs that were warm with pride and joy as they watched him hold their firstborn child, a beautiful baby boy that would grow to become a man, a man of great courage. How he longs to behold those eyes that were filled with love as she held her newborn child, a boy gifted with great intelligence and a kindly heart, much like her. He wishes to gaze into those eyes, those lovely eyes that had been dimmed with pain in the last months of her life, stripped of their brightness by the sickness that claimed her life.
He takes her hand, now pale and waxen, and remembers how she would hold his hand on the way home from church, or from dinner, like a schoolgirl would. Her air of naiveté was what had first drawn him to her, and through the years, she had maintained it. She had been far from naïve though. She, like her eldest son, could read the hearts of others well, and felt compassion for all. He remembers how she would embrace him on nights he felt alone. There were no words, she understood he did not need words, and she would just hold him, stroking his back until he felt loved and wanted.
He swallows hard, for he finds himself aching for her embrace. He has felt her touch for more than half his lifetime; he cannot give it up so quickly. He needs her touch, not this cold stiff piece of flesh that was once her hand.
He does not know if he can continue without her. She has always been the steadying force in his life. With one son living in a sheltered world, and the other always risking his own life, her much needed constant presence had always calmed him and reassured him. He finds the peace she had always given him has slipped away with her passing.
He watches her face, pale but peaceful. Her lips and chin are still stained with blood, from a hemorrhage that had occurred only moments before. He shakes his head. She had known what her death would do to her family. God only knows the incredible guilt she had felt in her last days.
He hears a noise outside the tiny room holding himself and his wife. It is his eldest son, who does not dare to look into the room.
It is time to say goodbye.
He takes a deep breath, and brings her hand to his lips, grief swelling as he feels the cold skin. He bends down taking one last look at his dear wife's face. He kisses her lips, his heart breaking again.
"I miss you," he whispers, a tear sliding down his face.
He looks for hope, for the reassurance that he can survive without her light in his light. He needs know that he can be strong without her; that her memory won't weaken him, but raise him up.
But all he sees is a cold reminder that his life will always have a missing piece.
He leaves the cold white room, and closes the steel door, which seems heavier than it had before. He looks at his son, whose face is pale but blank, mirroring his own visage.
"Dad," he whispers, blinking hard, his fragile composure breaking.
In the cold white hall, where silence and grief reign, two men give in to their rising agony.
