74

The clock is slowly creeping towards midnight. My father lies in his bed and breathes irregularly. He's about to leave us soon, we all know it. His grandchildren has already said their farewells, as has his friends. Now it's just him and me, father and son. The only thing keeping the room from being totally consumed by silence is the clock ticking on the wall.

   I hold his hand, more for my own sake than his. He's barely conscious and at times I doubt if he knows I'm even there with him. His face is in a state of constant pain. He moans ever so slightly and his lips trembles. I help him to the glass of water on the night table.

   Suddenly he bolts up as the bell chimes twelve. He looks straight at the door. I turn around but see nothing. He doesn't reply to my attempts to talk to him.

   "Suzie" he lets out before slumping back into the bed. Dead.

   Two weeks later a burial is held. It's a private affair with only a handful of people. When the ceremony is over everyone starts milling towards the parking lot and the cars. I stay back and take a final look at the tombstone before I return to my family.

Suzanne Clifford

8 April 1938 - 4 June 1968

Harry Clifford

5 July 1931 - 3 March 2014