At 96 he bragged about his aim, <br />he'd celebrate one hundred years, <br />still at the wheel, adrift in stormy seas, <br />a life of work for self and other men. <br /> <br />The time soon slipped its ugly nose <br />beneath the door, past squeaky hinges <br />and touched him gently by the scruff <br />to let him know about it all, about the how, <br />the customary changing of the guards. <br /> <br />They had prepared to sit and have their meal, <br />fresh picked among the never-ending stones <br />that had been hardened, rough companions <br />in their beloved garden in far north Vermont. <br /> <br />No, it is fine, he said, a smile now graced his face, <br />I shall be done with all my meals, it is the way, <br />it is on Friday week that you will find for me <br />one hundred candles, just to mark the day. <br /> <br />He never ate again, just sat and sipped his juice, <br />and water from their well with one small sprig of mint, <br />to stir and occupy the time that let her have <br />their long accustomed pleasure of each meal. <br /> <br />She found the candles, little ones, and brought them home <br />inside the secret pocket of her white and blue, <br />his face had never glowed so brightly, she could feel <br />a farewell warmth to take the chill and make it go. <br /> <br />The day did come, dear God, they sat, his hand so small, <br />but kindred blood was holding fast to say good byes <br />It is just fine, she said, you may as well now go <br />he answered, yes, my love and closed his hazel eyes.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scott-nearing-s-death/
