He didn’t think he could die alone, apart from her forty years of comfort, but death found him a sailor adrift in the tropic of cancer entranced by the shimmering, glinting sea: mirrors asking of the voice inside him. That precarious beachhead of being which in these last hours drifted farther and farther from his eye.
He can’t resolve their difference – her longing look and his silence – with words or the sophistry of acceptance. He will have to go there, feel, experience, and be the sun that shines through our bones.