The dawn of his death

I remember the dawn of his death.
The night before we lay restless in bed as though knowing in our inner being that the day's visit had been our last.
On that day when we visited he was a different man, having suddenly grown old in a few days. As though knowing that he stood at death's door, he could not face us his loved ones. And so he went outside his ward, sneakily smoking his last with the friends that had come with.
With a mother's intuition, perhaps a lover's, my mother knew something wasn't right. He just wasn't himself.
So that dawn as we lay restless, I heard the phone ring. I knew. Then I heard her go outside. She was gone for a while. I'm sure she went to cry. I admire her for not breaking down in front of us, it would have caused us more pain.
And so I watched as her smile faded with time, and her laughter with the sunsets. And I prayed that she'd be healed and find her joy again.