Jeffrey A. Summers looked at his own reflection in the mirror at the foyer of Oregon's upscale hotel. He stared intensely at his eyes. They had finally turned grey like his father's.
It was bittersweet.
He was exhilarated because he had already accomplished his mission. What he needed to do had been done.
It spread like wildfire the exhaustion and the sheer torture he endured in his life. For more than forty seven years he enjoyed, well, that was how he always dealt with it, being partially blind.
People did not realize that when he said his gratitude to all who crossed paths with him were his 'last goodbyes.'
At ninety years old, myriad chances of saying 'thank yous' to all were like the changing of the seasons.
His Summer had turned into Autumn.
It was poignant.
It was poignant.
Fallen leaves were scattered on the ground. He walked at the park and he even felt and heard the brown leaves making sound waves like when you crumple paper.
And, from afar he saw a bonfire.
Then, metaphorically, he vanished on the first fall of snow. His contributions were like countless snowflakes frozen into eternity.
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