The wristwatch he wears is sized to fit a strong, sturdy man. It climbs quickly up his raised arm, mocking his frail frame. He is dying. Slowly yet quickly. Eighty-nine is a beautiful, humbling number. Long life. He has lived. It hasn't been easy.
The nurse sets his frail earth suit in the wheelchair and my Aunt, his daughter, steers him to the center of the room. We, his family, gather. He smiles. He STILL smiles.
Gangrene eats his flesh. What there is left of his flesh anyway. He is mostly bones. Mostly spirit. Death is knocking at his door and he smiles. Maybe it's not death knocking. It seems more like heaven calling. And he smiles because he knows. He's about to trade his earth suit for a perfect, heavenly one.