"Goodbye, my son."
Bidding farewell, the father put his hand through the wall of weeds that was blocking the entrance.
His eyes were tightly closed as his heart had already calmed down. He was already content with facing his demise; he had come to terms with it. He was fully expecting his hands to be blown up any moment. At this time, time slowed down. All his past memories began to replay in his mind as he prepared for his death — his childhood, the fond memories in the gurudwar, playing with his friends, getting into fights, growing up, the back of the beautiful girl, getting married, feeling the warmth of that little hand that held his pinky finger — the memories so distant, yet so close, so comforting. He was at peace.
