The Time I Chose not to Die
The recliner, its leather cracked and softened by decades, cradled Lenard’s withered frame like an old friend. The living room, bathed in the honeyed glow of a waning sun, thrummed with the warmth of gathered souls. His people—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and a scattering of lifelong companions—filled the space, their voices weaving a tapestry of memory and mirth. Lenard had summoned them here, to his home, to share his final days not in the cold sterility of a hospital but in the embrace of this familiar hearth. Whisky glasses clinked, amber liquid catching the light, and laughter rose like incense.
Lenard’s breaths were shallow, each one a deliberate act, yet his eyes burned with a defiant vitality. He sipped his whisky, savoring its smoky bite, and let the moment settle into his bones. Amid the hum of conversation, a small figure stirred at his feet—Tommy, his great-grandson, barely five, clutching a toy truck with fierce concentration. The boy’s gaze lifted, his eyes wide and unguarded, cutting through the room’s easy rhythm.
“Great-Grandpa,” Tommy said, his voice a clear bell in the din, “are you afraid to die?”
The words landed like a stone in a still pond. Silence rippled outward, heads turning, breaths held. A few adults exchanged glances, but Lenard’s lips curled into a smile, and a low, resonant chuckle rumbled from his chest, as if death itself were a jest he’d long outwitted.
“Afraid, Tommy?” he said, his voice steady, warm, and edged with mischief. “No, my boy. Let me tell you a story—one that’s lived in me longer than most.”
The room leaned closer, glasses stilled, as Lenard’s voice drew them into the past. His tone took on a measured cadence, each word chosen with care, as if unspooling a sacred text. “It was the summer after my third year at university. I was twenty-one, brash and curious, and I’d just begun courting your great-grandmother, Ellie. She was a storm in human form—sharp-witted, radiant, with a laugh that could unravel a man’s defenses. We were in love, or something close to it, and that summer we were unshackled from duty. No lectures, no labor, just the endless promise of youth.”
He paused, his gaze drifting to the window, where the sun’s last rays painted the world gold. “One afternoon, we found ourselves in a park near the college. The air was heavy with the scent of blooming honeysuckle, the grass a vibrant green beneath a sky so blue it seemed to hum. We spread a blanket beneath an ancient oak, its branches a cathedral of shade. Ellie lay beside me, humming a tune I’ve long forgotten, her presence a tether to the earth. I, meanwhile, was deep in my studies—philosophy, religion, the sort of questions that gnaw at a young man’s soul. I’d been practicing meditation, seeking stillness, seeking answers.”
Lenard’s voice softened, his eyes distant yet piercing, as if peering through time itself. “That day, as I sat cross-legged on the blanket, I closed my eyes and let the world dissolve. My breath became a rhythm, my thoughts a quiet tide. And then… I felt it. A presence, vast and gentle, like the warmth of a hearth after a long journey. It was God, or so I believe—not a figure from scripture, but a consciousness, infinite and intimate. And in that stillness, a question formed, not in words but in the language of the soul: ‘Lenard, would you pass on to the next plane?’”
Tommy’s mouth parted, his truck forgotten. “God talked to you?”
Lenard nodded, a faint smile playing at his lips. “In a way, yes. But it was more than a question. It was an offer—a vision. In that moment, I saw the day as it was: Ellie’s laughter, the sun’s warmth, the oak’s quiet strength. It felt like a perfect ending, as if God were saying, ‘This could be the capstone of your life, a moment so complete it could carry you into eternity.’ And beyond that, I sensed… more. The next plane wasn’t an end but a beginning—vast, radiant, filled with wonders I could scarcely imagine. It was a promise of joy unending, of questions answered, of love unbound.”
The room was a held breath, every listener caught in the gravity of his words. Lenard sipped his whisky, the glass trembling in his hand. “I considered it, Tommy. I was young, my heart full of Ellie, my mind ablaze with questions. That day was perfect, yes, but I saw all that lay ahead—the adventures yet to come, the sorrows and triumphs, the children we’d raise, the world we’d explore. I thought of Ellie’s hand in mine, of the years we’d steal from time. And I answered, ‘No.’ Not yet. There was too much left to taste, too much to build, too much to love.”
He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Tommy’s. “That moment defined me. It was as if I’d been given a glimpse of eternity and chosen, instead, the messy, beautiful chaos of this life. From that day, I’ve lived with intention—every laugh, every tear, every glass of whisky shared with those I cherish. It’s all been a gift, an extension of that choice. And now, as I sit here with all of you, I feel no fear. I’ve ridden this life to its fullest, and what waits beyond? I trust it’s as radiant as that promise I felt all those years ago.”
Tommy blinked, his small face alight with wonder. “So you told God you wanted to keep going?”
“Precisely,” Lenard said, his voice rich with conviction. He reached down, ruffling Tommy’s hair with a trembling hand. “And I’d choose it again, every time.”
The silence broke, a soft tide of murmurs and smiles washing over the room. Lenard raised his glass, its amber glow a beacon. “To the ride,” he said, his voice a quiet thunder.
“To the ride,” they echoed, glasses chiming, laughter swelling. And in that moment, Lenard was not a man on death’s threshold but a soul ablaze, as vibrant as he’d been beneath that oak, when he chose not to die.