By CM Royem
He died at exactly 3:00 a.m. on a winter morning that was so cold the snow squeaked underfoot. The dark had yet to give hint of the approaching light of day.
His face, with the stress of sickness, transformed into the face of a child, peaceful as if asleep. His blue eyes now hidden behind closed lids, and his breath gone quiet. My brother, there seconds before, had let go. Only the shell of who he had been lay before me.
The calm oak tree outside whipped into a momentary frenzy as if to help his spirit soar to the beyond.
You honor him. I think the best thing a writer can do is be true, true to the subject, the tone, the theme. Your writing is so beautifully true.