Au Revior, Papa
Skin like parchment, and cool. Eyes pale, color faded. Looking so frail laying in his bed, covers tucked under his chin. 95 years, and not enough years for me.
“Tell Mama I’ll tend the garden tomorrow,” he says, his voice quiet, weak. Mama died years ago. I stroke his forehead gently. He smiles. A tear forms in the corner of his eye, wells up, rolls slowly down his cheek. “I love you, dear.” His eyelids slowly drop. The sun does not shine. Birds are silent.
The waves come in and wash the castle away. He is gone.