Spotlight

You are the star. From the first act, when you said, "You won't see much of me. I'm pretty good." That you were, and more. Lithe and springy, chin always raised, a toothy grin in permanent residence. The history was remarkable for your positive choices: vegan, hiker, family man, work-life balancer, purveyor of kindness to all. The spotlight shone brightly, and you strode off-stage, young yet learned, a white knight. A gentleman. Time passes. How long, who can say? You are wheeled to the centre of the stage. Swimming in a baggy drab green gown, your cheekbones contouring the thinned skin and lichen beard. Eyes darting across the hollowed orbits, pleading for answers I do not have. Science fails me, and religion cannot explain; I stand there, uncertain of what to say. Uncertain of everything. Why did I come? Did you want me to visit? I have not slept since the letters arrived, their verdict haunting every quiet moment. You drink softly from the cup by your bedside, motion to your wife and brother and friends, and thank me for coming. In the emotional maelstrom and the thoughts that drown me in confusion, you remain clear and firm and wise. Sensing my futile search for a response, you ground me with an unspoken question: Whose story is it?