The old man sat on the chair, rocking back and forth. The cold dagger of grief twisted in his wretched heart. Why did she have to die? Why on this very day?
It was the last day of the year, close to midnight. The old man knew that he was supposed to be happy, yet he couldn't muster that effort. January the first was supposed to be a happy occasion, a new beginning, washing your past away so it wouldn't haunt you. It was the glowing beacon of hope, illuminating the mostly dark tunnel of time.
Yet it wasn't. Not to the old man. As he gazed dreamily out of the window, his fists involuntarily curled. Why did death have to take her? Her, his precious wife. Then his beloved daughter. They were gone. All gone. All because of death.
Anger surged, exploding in a fit of coughing that racked his frail body. He glanced at the clock. Three minutes to midnight.
His wife died on the first of January. So did his daughter. It was obvious that life was taunting him, saying how its partner death could take away everything of his. He wasn't looking forward to their death date. Only three minutes away.
Outside, ripples of chatter and chortles echoed into the night. Melancholy swelled in his heart. How dare they celebrate his wife and daughter's death date? That was wholly inappropriate! The old man painstakingly rose from the chair, wincing as his weary bones creaked. He staggered over to the window and, with all his might, pushed it open.
A gust of chilly wind rushed past him. He shivered, already regretting his intention to shout the cheering people off. It was too cold, and the wind was blowing inside. No one would hear him. And maybe that would be for the better.
He glanced at the clock again. Two more minutes. The wind ceased to a gentle breeze. The old man clung to the window sill, staring at the twinkling stars. They were like little LED pegs, hanging in the inky black sky. Somehow, they reminded him of the accident where they both died. The only thing he remembered seeing was the brightness of the traffic lights, stark against yet another night sky.
One more minute to midnight. The excitement of the neighbours grew. Their voices grew louder. A stray tear slipped down the old man's wrinkled cheek. A dark cloud blocked out the stars. It seemed as if the stars were winking out, one by one, but they weren't, and the old man wasn't foolish enough to believe that.
Five...
Four...
Three...
Two...
One...
And then the sky exploded, with flaming bursts of flowers - green, red, yellow, all neon. The old man grimaced as he shielded his eyes from the majestic sight. His eyesight had mostly faded, yet it seemed as if he had been gifted with perfect clarity at that very moment. He could make out each individual shape, the minute difference in each flower. Whistles whispered as fireworks erupted. The stars were nothing in the luminescence of the fireworks.
Too soon, it was gone. The neighbourhood fell into ethereal silence. The old man slumped against the wall. He knew that it was over. He was going to join his family. He closed his eyes, slowly savouring the image of the brilliant fireworks forever imprinted in his brain. Silently, he thanked them for giving him a grand departure.
He smiled, and he died.
