Weeks before he passed, he looked at me. "If I died, would I leave a legacy?"
We were standing next to a memorial in our hometown. His eyes skimmed the plaque, black and gold, with a heavy heart.
"Well" I laughed, "Making nuclear weapons for a living does sound boring."
"I suppose," he laughed with me. He always laughed. "But would people miss me? Not my stories, but my story," he clarified.
I looked at him, as seriously as my face could get, "You'd have the busiest, happiest, and saddest of funerals."
He nudged my arm, nodding to the rest of the group we were walking with that had gone up ahead of us. "You're right, I'm practically famous after all. Everyone who see's me drops their jaws," he tried saying seriously, and fails. It was an on-going joke we had. That we were both famous and the world revolved around us. Of course, we didn't think that.
Turns out he was diagnosed with cancer only two weeks later. He went through chemo, but we knew it would be a lost cause. Of course, he wouldn't die without a fight.
For a long while he was mad. 60 years living and he already had a death sentence eating away at his bones. The happy figure that I knew slowly drifted away until all that remained was an empty shell of longing and regret.
My Mom saw that different side of him, but he always managed to laughed with me.
When he was transferred to a Hospice house, I visited him. It was the day before he would die. I walked into the room silently. He couldn't talk anymore, he couldn't smile or laugh, only lay with his eyes closed. He could hear us, but he wasn't entirely with us.
I sat next to his bed, tentatively touching his now boney, wrinkly hand. He gripped it as tight as he probably could, but it felt like a lose hold to me.
My mom leaned down to me, looking me in the eyes. "He asked us yesterday if you would sing to him," she said. I knew that, that's why I brought my guitar. "You don't have to if you can't," she said.
I felt his grip tighten on my hand, as if seconding what my mother said.
"No, I can," I said with my throat dry, with my heart throbbing.
But I couldn't sing. Ever word was a throaty grasp, a desperate plea for a melody. My Dad took me home, but I came back 2 hours later. I sang again, despite my tears, and I felt his hand slowly loosen it's grip on my arm.
I left that night, knowing full well that would probably be the last time I saw him. And it was.
You asked for a name... but spelling it hurts.
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