The last few days of his life he lay in a hospital bed in front of a window that looked out to the Salish Sea. Predictably deteriorating and yet it was still surprising. At times she thought he had been holding back his awareness of what was happening to him. He had tried everything to stave off the inevitable. Perhaps he thought that acceptance might speed its arrival.
But who knew, because he was not a man who revealed much about himself. In songs he wrote, maybe, in plays, but seldom directly, unless she pressed him. By the last few days, in his weakness and concern, he revealed more.
Where will I sleep tonight, he asked the morning of the day the doctor was going to come to help him to the other side. The middle place, I think, she told him, and he seemed okay with that vague explanation. He wanted to know what would happen to his clothes and when his dear ones expressed desires for various items and assured him that the rest would be donated to his favourite thrift store, his face wrinkled with dissatisfaction, having failed to communicate his meaning. What would happen to the clothes he was wearing when he died, is what he meant.
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