As I sit here motionless, the scents of unidentifiable foods and medical substances invade my nose. It bothers me how they just seem to float around in the air, like a constant presence, never wanting to leave me alone. With my senses being distracted erratically, my eyes soon become fixated on the drab grey walls that pour buckets of cold water over my spirits. Something just isn’t right. Even remaining still proves to be a tall order in this cringing space. In this dead silence, I’m starting to think that if I’m trapped in this room any longer, I will begin to lose my composure. Desperately seeking to avert the situation, I resort to distracting myself by observing the room. This place is as devoid of beauty as I am of hope. Its walls are simply cream, not peeling or dirty, just cream. Perhaps, they were once the kind of green that reminded people of spring time and hope, but they have faded so much that the hue is insipid. The cell is an undertone of bleach and the floor is covered with tiles of color pencil grey. Hanging isolated from its counterparts are the pictures on the walls that are cheap benign prints of uplifting scenes and above the double doors are large blue plastic signs. 

My family and other relatives, all with grim faces, surround his bed. “You’ll be all right, grandpa”, my sister gently whispered. But I can only feel sorry. Why can’t we at least give him some personal space? I mean, he must feel powerless with numerous faces glaring at him. Surely he must desire some peaceful time resting alone, instead of being monitored as if he is a prisoner. Perplexed as I am, I remain rested in my chair and watch the people around me.

My father takes my hand and places it on top of grandpa’s and it doesn’t take long for me to realize that it doesn’t feel anything like my father’s that I am used to holding every day. Rough. Dry. Swollen. Rigid. His hand is cold and is getting cooler by the minute. His chest is not rising as lively as it used to be just a few moments ago. Nothing can be heard in the room besides capricious breathing and occasional gasps of air. As I feel my hand being squeezed ever so slightly, I catch sight of grandpa’s chest swelling up and remaining in that position for what feels like an hour. It is as if time has stopped right at this second and everything turns blurry. Momentarily, a strong stream of air penetrates my right arm. Something, which I cannot identify, has escaped his body and all that remains is a detached shell. Nothing appears different, yet not the same. I let go of grandpa’s hand, only to realize that it has turned ice cold.

“What happened?”, I blurted spontaneously to no one in particular. With no response to satisfy my curiosity, I look over to my mother, whose eyes fluttered in different directions. I placed my hand on grandpa’s arm that had stiffened to a metal rod. It strikes me that it feels like just moments ago when I was watching him sit in his reclining rocking chair in khaki pants and an undershirt, reading the “Nature Magazine”. He would spend hours blabbing about his favourite inventions. Comprehending his words was beyond boundaries. But suddenly, a soft croaky voice emerges from the back of my head. “Candles burn and candles blaze … but not for long”. Precious words I recall from the day of my fourth birthday spring to life.  Never have I thought that the candle, and all that it was meant to be, slowly burns out, leaving only the memory of those beautiful, flickering moments of warmth and safety. Those memories, which can only be provided by the candle, are never forgotten, forever nurturing moments of comfort, of learning, and of holiness. Now, I close my eyes and gaze into fields of nothingness.