When I told him we were going to let him go, his eyes flew open, not an objection, but his only way to express the fear.
His tattered body was immobile except for his eyes, eyes that come to me now in the ragged edges of sleep.
My words wrapped him in a shawl, a gentle rain of things I have said so often and things I could not say before.
And in the end as I stroked his forehead, words failed me. The profundity of death has no expression. It was silent but that was enough.