The family huddled around the hospital bed,
their grief was palpable;
and through the prism of tears,
they softly prayed.
The muffled sounds of the machines, pings, beeps, and clicks punctuated the austere room.
In one exhausting effort, he laboriously raised his head from the pillow,
his pale, thin, hand, pulled the oxygen mask from is face
and, as weak a he was he whispered:
“A bowl of soup, please.”
His sister called the nurse – within minutes, the piping hot soup arrived. The nurse carefully spooned the soup.
He raised his hand to stop the nurse and said,
“I wish I had spent more time at the office.”
They all nodded in agreement. He was right. He was always right.
Granted, he lacked in social graces and was perfectly clueless when it came to dealing with people- most people.
His niece and twin nephews wept for the uncle they never knew. He had called the kids “the odd couple plus one” since they were yay-high. They loathed him.
The priest came in to deliver the final rites and the old man, barely able to speak said, “Bless me Father, I once stuffed a cat in a beach towel and had it delivered to old man Kennedy.”
With that, he closed his eyes and a single green line skipped across the screen.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “An Odd Trio.”
See: Top Five Deathbed Regrets