Victor Whitaker had been ill for a long, hard stretchcancer, that cruel spectre. Each day slipped into the next, grey and faded, filled with pain and bitter tablets. He bore it bravely, eyes fixed on the ceiling of his London ward, so that he would not have to watch the watery eyes of his wife Helen and his little daughter Ethel, who, with the last of their strength, forced smiles during their brief visits. Then the day came when it was clear the end was near. He stared at the drip and the cracked plaster above, and only one thought turned in his mind: This is the beginning of the end. I shall not return home.
His condition worsened suddenly. The disease, like a raging beast, made its final, decisive strike. The world narrowed to the size of the ward, the antiseptic scent, and the muffled voices beyond the door, and then it vanished, swallowed by a heavy, breathless darkness.
And then silence.
The pain drained away, every last drop of it. The crushing weight that had pressed on his chest and bones for months dissolved. A lightness, almost childlike, rose within him. He drew a deep breaththe first truly free one in months. His eyes fluttered open.
He stood in his own sittingroom. Sunlight danced on dust motes, falling upon the familiar settee. And there they were.
Ethel was hugging Helen. Ethels shoulders trembled, and Helens face was twisted in a mute, terrible grief. Both women shrieked, their cries reaching him as if filtered through thick glassdistant and hushed.
What has happened? Victor thought, frozen. Why are they weeping? I am in the hospital How did I come here?
He stepped toward them, yearning to hold them, to comfort, to ask. Yet they paid him no heed. He reached out to touch his daughters shoulder, but his fingers passed through, meeting only a faint chill.
Horrified, he recoiled, and his gaze fell upon a large portrait of himself, framed in black mourning.
Another second was enough for the picture to resolve into a terrible, impossible tableau: his wifes tears, his daughters sobs, and himselfpresent yet unseen, incorporeal. He was not at home; he was beyond. He was witnessing what follows.
Did I die? In the hospital and they have already laid me to rest? The thought was monstrous, but it held no doubt. It was true. The illness had finally felled him. The end had arrived. Yet why was he still seeing, feeling, understanding?
He watched the two dearest people to him, and his heartwhat had once been a heart tore with helplessness and sorrow. He wanted to shout, I am here! All is well! I feel no pain! but not a sound escaped him.
In desperation he covered his face with his hands. Then a miracle unfolded. The roar, like surf on a shore, fell silent. He felt a small, warm hand press against his cheek. He opened his eyes.
Standing before him was his mother, exactly as he remembered from childhooda young, smiling woman with gentle light in her eyes. Behind her stretched not his house but an endless field bathed in soft golden light, speckled with cornflowers, his favourite blooms.
Mother? he whispered. Is that you? How?
All is well, Victor dear, her voice was low and familiarly tender. It is over now. You are free. You only needed to say goodbye.
He turned his head. The room with the two weeping women drifted away like a picture fading on a screen, dissolving into light.
But they they his voice faltered.
They will manage. They have each other and a love for you that will stay with them forever. Your pain has ended. You have earned peace.
His mother gently took his hand. Her touch was real, alive. He looked into her eyes and saw endless understanding and forgiveness.
Fear melted away. The old, exhausting ache was gone. Only a light melancholy remained, melting like morning mist under the sun, giving way to a new, unfamiliar yet infinitely calm feeling.
Victor Whitaker turned one last time. In the fading world his wife and daughter finally met each others eyes and, in a tender, feminine manner, pressed foreheads together, finding a drop of solace in each others arms.
He smiled at them, sending a parting blessing, and faced the light.
Come on, Mother, he said softly. I have missed you.
And he stepped into his new, eternal dawn.
In the room where his beloved wife and daughter remained, something inexplicable occurred. Helen abruptly ceased her tears and straightened. She pressed a hand to her heart, as if listening for a rhythm.
Whats happening, Mum? Ethel asked, frightened.
I dont know Helen whispered. I suddenly feel calm. Warm. As if Father just embraced us and said he is fine.
They turned to the portrait in the black frame. Both swore they saw a faint, almost imperceptible smile on Victors tired yet kind face. The heaviness in the room seemed to lift, replaced by a bright sorrow that bore no desperation, only quiet, humble grief and boundless gratitude for all the years they had shared.
Thus it is remembered: death is not the final curtain. It is merely a quiet farewell in one realm, to find everlasting life in another. Love is the thread that binds the two worlds together. It does not snap nor fade. It lives in memory, in the warmest recollections, in the faces of children and grandchildren, in the soft patter of rain on the window that someone once loved to hear.
Those we lose do not depart forever. They simply return Home, leaving their love as comfort and hope that one day we shall meet againwhere there is no pain, no tears, only light and serene peace. As long as we remember and love, they are alivenot in an urn of ash, but in every sunbeam that pierces the clouds, in every kind deed we do in their honour.
They turn at the parting, smile through the unseen veil and whisper, Live. Be joyful. I am close. I am free. And you will overcome all.
P.S. Dear Father, I love you dearly and remember you always. I know you are forever by my side.
