The Thorough Gardener

He left us
when he was 82.
 
He died in his sleep,
peacefully, the staff said.
He sensed his departure
two days
before his final breath.
 
He called his wife,
his sons, his daughter,
told them
he could feel the chill,
he could see the light,
he could hear the calling.
 
That afternoon
when he closed his eyes
in the silence of the hospital ward,
he dreamt of:
the bloom of yellow flowers
and the sharp scent
of freshly cut grass
in his garden,
the lull
of an empty train station
on a misty morning,
the smell
of peppery mutton chops
served with piping hot rice,
the endearing sight
of his granddaughters
grinning ear to ear,
the roar of a soccer stadium
as he pushed his way
through sweaty tackles,
the sparkling excitement
in the stark black eyes
of his kid brother
piggybacking on him
through busy city lanes,
and his airy walk
melting
into the white, warm,
welcoming light.
 
He left us
when he was 82.
He remained 82
ever since.