Last Moments

I find him in a hospital bed. That's where they often are.

I feel a warm presence next to me. I look down and see a woman made of a faintly blue light. I remember her. She walked with me some twenty years ago; now she is here again.
Good.
I'm glad she's here. He will be happy to see his wife again.

We walk closer and that's when he breathes for the last time. His dark skin is shrivelled on his hands, his cheeks are hollow, and his closed eyes are surrounded by wrinkles.
He might look like he is just sleeping, but I know better. She does too, and she is waiting. She has been waiting for the past twenty years, and now the wait is almost over. She taps her foot frantically, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes never once leaving his chest.

I take a moment to look at his stiffening body, but I can't bear it for more than a couple of seconds. I don't like looking at their bodies. They never tell the full story of the person in front of me.

Their bodies are just shells. Empty vessels for their families to do with as they please.
Leftovers.

I look at his face again. His eyes are still closed; they will stay that way.
He looks peaceful, a small smile lingering on his lips.

He knows she is here.

A light. A faint glow slowly emerging from the now lifeless body.
Cautiously, he sits up. Not the body - the soul.

He looks around - confused. They always are.
He sees me and cowers. They always do.

Then it hits him. I can see it in his eyes as the realisation of what is happening washes over him. His shoulders slump, as he looks at the young man who is sound asleep by the bed. He is lucky he has someone like that. He was lucky he had someone like that. Though his existence would continue somewhere else, it would not be on this plane.

He looks our way again, but this time he sees her. He straightens up, a weight lifting off his shoulders; his eyes welling up as he smiles.
I don't need to look at her to know she is happy too; the air around her is much warmer. I want to bask in the warmth coming off them, but it is not mine to feel - it is for them to share.

He stands up from the bed onto his shaky legs, not looking away from her face for a single second.

I want to tell him that it's okay, that he has nothing to worry about. That she is not going anywhere ever again.
This doesn't always happen.

Sometimes they have to go on their own, with nobody to guide them. It's easy to get lost that way.
Those poor unfortunate souls.

I don't say a thing. It is not my place to say anything. This moment is for them. She's here to guide him; I'm here to make sure he goes.

"It's you" he whispers, slowly inching closer. I don't think he realises he doesn't need help walking anymore.
She says nothing; just reaches out her hand out to him. He is made of the same bright, faintly blue, light as she is.
She has been waiting for him for many years, and now, finally, the wait was over.

"My love," he says, as a single tear runs down his cheek.
His steps are small, uncertain, and far in between; he hasn't been using his legs for some months now.
He reaches her at last, and they fall into each other's arms. Their embrace has been long awaited - this is the hug she never got when it was her time to come with me.
Eventually, she breaks away from him and takes a hold of his hand instead.

"Let's go." Her words are soft as she pulls him behind me, going where she came from, where he was going too.
I don't know where that is. I don't know what it looks like. I only know that they do not come back from there, unless it is to take someone back with them.

I know that they are gone, because the warmth coming off them turns into the clinical cold of a hospital. Everyone else knows they're gone, because the machine to which his body is plugged in lets out a long, high-pitched noise.

The young man jerks awake, jumps to his feet screaming for a doctor, and shakes the shoulders of his father's body. It is a sad scene to witness, but I cannot comfort him; I am not a comforting presence to anyone - especially to someone whose parent just died.

As I walk out the door, a group of doctors rushes into the room; I pay them no mind. I know their best efforts are going to be futile, they won't bring him back - he has moved on, not really coming across as someone who would want to hang around. He might come back for his family, or perhaps a friend, maybe he will even be there when it is his son's time to move along. I have seen that before.

Instead, I make my way to another room. I have a lot of work to do tonight, especially in the NICU.
I will have to work that room alone. There won't be anyone to guide those souls, which is unfortunate, because I don't really like children.