Face

They say that when you die, you see your whole life flash before your eyes. Well I disagree. I am dying and my life isn't like a picture show before my eyes. There is only one face in front of me. Steady and yet changeable, subtly. It isn't the face of my mother or my father or my little sister, Becky. It isn't even my own face going through the changes of time and a life of service. No, it is a face I have observed in all of its facets and yet never quiet reached the bottom of its expressions. It is the face of the man I loved, still love and probably will always love.

I see the young under-butler, dimple in chin and brown, soulful eyes. An unruly head of jet-black hair carefully slicked back, tamed into submission, much better than my own auburn curls.

I see the middle-aged butler with his authoritarian airs and graces around him. His eyes are harder now, less readable and approachable. The dimple in his chin is still the same, but his hair is lightening.

I see the old butler, hair now gone grey. His face is lined with wrinkles, his forehead deeply furrowed showing his disapproval almost constantly, his eyes are surrounded by crows' feet, indicating a life full of both laughter and sorrow. The eyes themselves are still the same tender brown, more open now again, alight with the discovery of a new love. The dimple in his chin has always held me captivated.

Beneath all this I see his reassurance and love.

The last thing I perceive before it all becomes black are softly spoken words. "Wait for me, my love, it won't be long and we are reunited again."