Grandfather fought until the end. Everyday was a struggle, a fight to wake up, an endurance trial to move his limbs, a marathon to cross the room. He had been fighting as long as I knew him. He had lasted longer than most but the writing was on the wall. No matter, the fight, no matter the fancy new weapons used . It was soon going to end. He never let on, never told us anything, never said how much it hurt or if he was scared. He was a fighter and fear was for wimps. He tried to carry on as much as he could until right to the end. Didn’t know he had gone until the call from the hospital. We visited him in dribs and drabs.
He had been so defiant that I was surprised to see the look on his face. Features that had for so long been a beacon of resistance had instead mellowed. He looked contented almost happy, as if a great burden had been shifted off his shoulders. In essence it had. The last decades of Grandfather’s life had been a great battle. But that was over now. He could finally rest. He was at peace.
All life’s a struggle
A constant war to survive
In death we find peace
Written for the Ligo Haibun Challenge