The golden retriever had grown old too, unable to walk anymore.
Every day, he carried it downstairs, set it on the lawn, and let it bask in the sun.
It lay there with its eyes closed, its tail giving an occasional wag. He sat beside it too, eyes closed, basking in the sun.
They would sit there for an entire afternoon.
His child came back, bringing his grandson.
His grandson called him Grandpa, and he answered with a smile.
The boy ran around everywhere, making a racket. Watching him, he remembered his own childhood, that slide, and that big tabby cat.
Those memories were like they were veiled by mist—blurred, but still there.
His spouse was still alive.
The two of them sat on the sofa, looking at each other. Sometimes they said nothing, simply sat there holding hands. They did not speak, yet they did not feel bored.
He was a hundred years old.
He lived to be a hundred.
All his peers had gone, leaving only him behind.
His child had grown old too, and his grandson had grown up.
He sat in a wheelchair as someone pushed him around the courtyard.
The sunlight on his body was pleasantly warm. He closed his eyes and felt that trace of warmth as the breeze carried the scent of flowers.
He smelled it, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
All the complexities of a lifetime had finally been digested.
No more entanglement, no more judgment, no joy or sorrow.
His thoughts had nearly stopped, leaving only pure sensation.
Basking in the sun, watching drifting clouds, listening to the wind, feeling warmth—his sense of self slowly dissolved, no longer clinging to the existence of "I."
It was like returning to childhood, yet more peaceful than a child: no restlessness, no