The morning mist was delicious. Standing on the dock, he felt a sense of renewal and hope. He knew they wouldn't last long, but savored the feeling while he could. He watched the boat drift away with the current. His aching fingers had fumbled over the knots, but he'd been successful in releasing the boat, his only contact with the mainland. He knew he'd never be able to swim the distance to the mainland, but he didn't care. He'd made his choice and felt the cliched peace of acting on a long debated decision. He stood, smiling, breathing in the mist. It was a perfect scene, one he'd spent hours imagining and orchestrating. But the mist, that had been nature's coup de gras, letting him know she was still in charge and knew how to really set the scene.

"It's terminal, I'm afraid." The doctor's tone brooked no argument. His word on this, like God's, was final. He had been told he might have cancer, but wasn't expecting the biopsies and tests to be so finale. He really wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but in an oddly placed moment of clarity, he understood. He understood what was happening, what all this meant for him, and he began to think. He began to plan. Even while the doctor showed him the scans, reviewed the cytology, listed this or that factor, he was beginning to plan. Agreed, it was only in the farthest reaches of his mind, but the ideas were beginning to bubble. The doctor thought, with the wisdom of experience, that his glazed look was from the diagnosis; a reaction to being told that life, though always known to be terminal, was ending. The doctor was wrong. He knew what the doctor was trying to say and he understood everything. His cancer was terminal. His life was going to end a bit earlier than he'd anticipated. And he was OK.

The island itself was remote and had only the most primitive of developments. A minor path led from the dock into the woods. The dock looked like something lashed together in haste by inexperienced teen boys on a summer lark. But it had done its job with grace, if not style. The woods covered the small island like the frosting on a cake, decadent and luxurious. The leaves were just beginning to turn and within a couple of weeks would set the island afire in brilliant color. He had hoped he would see it one more time.

The divorce had been easier for him than he'd imagined. She'd protested at first, but not as much as she should have. He'd been right when he'd guessed that her love had died long before her kindness. She'd never said anything to him, and had continued on without complaint. But he'd noticed the sparkle missing from her eye. He had mourned the loss, had even felt guilty that he let her continue the charade of loving him. But in the end she had absolved him. He had only wanted on thing, their cabin. She had acquiesced, shed not a few tears and said her good-byes. He knew he would miss her, and she him. He had not told her the truth; he had not told her he was terminal.

The path lazily flowed through the woods. Like a ruddy stream, taking the easiest way to its destination. He had in the past complained about the circuitous nature of the path, particularly while carrying coolers and linens. Now he understood why the path was the way it was. Not to anger or hinder, but to relax and soothe. From the path you could drink in the woods at a leisurely pace. Like a fine seven course meal, the path offered its delights slowly and with purpose. Each moment to be enjoyed wholly before moving to the next. The path was smooth with age and made the walking easy. The mist added an other worldly quality to the woods. It softened and blurred the harsh edges of reality; it quieted the timbre of the woods. The trees stood in silent witness to his passing. The could not acknowledge someone so briefly in their presence. Trees, he often imagined, thought in years and not moments. The path soon gave way to a small clearing, in which stood the cabin.

He had told his work nothing. He had quietly submitted his resignation and went dreamily through his remaining days. Many had asked why he was leaving, where was he going, what were his plans; but he'd denied them all. He remained silent on the future and they finally gave up. He supposed he could have filled them in, but he had not wanted their sentimentality, their parties, or their hopes. It was cruel, he knew, but he allowed himself to believe there was no other way. He didn't resent the parties or the well wishes, they just did not seem important to him any longer. The office had always been a place of conflict. Not among his coworkers, but among his emotions. He had liked what he'd done, but had often wished to do something else. He had never pushed for a promotion, but had always done an excellent job. To his surprise, people resented him for that. He enjoyed the companionship and friendliness of the workplace, and he enjoyed the people he had served. All in all, he was satisfied with the job he'd done, if not always the job. Thinking himself a small cog, he knew his absence would soon be forgotten and his contributions folded into the company - no longer his. He didn't mind, in fact he preferred to be forgotten. He had always felt transparent and this was the perfect way to end his career. He packed all his belongings, all his workplace treasures and left without a final good-bye.

The cabin was small. He liked it though. At two bedrooms, it had been perfect as a getaway. It was well constructed and as far as he knew, had no major flaws. It was rustic, but with a distinct feminine touch. His wife had made her mark, but had been wise enough to leave the inherent masculinity of the building alone. He loved her all the more for that unspoken decision. The firewood was still stacked neatly along the front wall. He could just make out the garden, or what remained of the garden, along the north side of the cabin. The garden had been a singular joy for him and his wife. Carefully tending the garden on vacations, driving up on weekends throughout the summer, picking and harvesting in the fall and turning the soil. It was not very modern, and many of his friends thought them foolish, but it felt good. And the memory warmed him. The mist was beginning to burn off as the sun rose higher. Soon the sun would be spying directly down on the cabin, bringing with it it's own delicate warmth. His friends, they had taken a great deal of pleasure laughing at this place, his cabin. That too made him smile. Though at his expense, their laughter and the memory of it was joy. He had never cared when he was the butt of a joke, in fact preferred it. He just loved to hear people laugh. Remembering, he opened the door.

They were all there. All his friends and some of his enemies. All there for one last bash, though they didn't know it. He sat smiling in the corner, at his usual booth. His best friends around him. The whole pub was his tonight. The laughter, an opiate to an addict in need of a fix, was everywhere. Jokes, boasts, tall tales, and not so subtle jabs flew around him. This was, for him heaven. He was paying the tab of course, but that didn't matter either. What use did he have for money now. It was the gold that his friends unknowingly provided him that was his real treasure. He wanted this night to be one to remember, and he was taking care that he didn't enjoy too much of the local ale. He slowly looked around the room one last time. His heart filled with the purest of joy at the happiness he saw around him. No one was getting drunk, or fighting; they were all just good men and women smiling and laughing. He said one soft good-bye to his closest and snuck out. He didn't want any melodrama and was afraid he would descend that road, as he often did when he was overflowing with emotion. He did pay the tab, and a little extra to cover the night. And for his best friends, paid ahead, enough for a few years of moderate drinking.


The cabin was as he'd left it this morning. Not that he expected it to be different. The embers in the fireplace still gave off comforting warmth. The morning sun came gliding through the windows and gave the room a preternatural air. This morning he had risen, showered and even shaved. His only task had been to let loose the boat, ensuring his isolation and privacy. The task had taken exactly the right amount of time. Of course any amount of time would have been the right amount. The rest of the day would be spent in letter writing. His vanity forcing him to explain his behavior over the last few weeks. He didn't expect anyone to find him or the letters anytime soon, but they would be left waiting for whoever showed up to find him. Now that was the first unpleasant thought he'd had all morning. He knew he was going to die, maybe even today. Nothing he could do about that, as the doctor had quite clearly and clinically explained. But he didn't want some kind soul, who was merely looking in on him, to be startled or sickened by finding his corpse. He admitted to himself that this was the one flaw he had in his plan. If he had gone to hospice, everything would have been taken care of. But he wanted death, if it had to come, to find him on his own terms.

The day past easily and a bit too quickly. by nightfall the letters were written and properly addressed. His evening meal was an indulgence. Steak, baked potato, all the things the good doctor had denied him for years. By bedtime, he was exhausted. Looking back, he had not done much, but he was satisfied with his day. His overriding emotion was one of joy and peace. He was content. There was a stillness in his soul that he had forgotten was possible. He lay down on the mattress, one that had seemed hard for years, but now was the most comfortable thing he could have imagined. He reached up, happiness and joy flowing up and out of his heart and warming his entire being, and turned off the light for the last time.