Blood’s scent—the smell of uncanny, putrid air— tyrannizes all space, across his nose. He shivers. Hastened tones along deathbeds roll. Can I get my dad back?
Silence. Then come the zealous machines, to keep all these cyborgs away from their destiny, alive without a soul. Can they wake my dad up?
People come and go. Beyond the glass of parting they say “Hello,” “It will be fine.” What a farce. Take off your masks. No, it won’t be fine.
He rushes inside, where men in death’s embrace, all mire their souls as one— as a force against ultimate destiny. He meets the grim reaper, Blocking the doorway, bearing the words: “You can’t take my dad away.”
At father’s side he stays—dad? entangled in plastic pipes the man sleeps but lacking the intimate soul. His eight-year-old hand touches the old man’s palm and wishes on a shooting star for father to come back.
And so blood swims back through veins beneath fragile fingers mustering all strength to see his son again. Father’s lips part: beloved.
Father is eternal.
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