Coulda. Shoulda. Woulda. But didn’t.
Could haves, should haves, and would haves and the opposite.
It’s getting cold, he thought.
His lips ran dry as the cold breeze blew over the hill. He was sitting very still on the bench under the old cedar tree.
His eyes were fixed on the reddish horizon, watching those lazy grey clouds hover around the magnificent star.
That bench was the one his father made when he was on his grade school.
He could still remember his joy when his father let him help with the hammer and nails.
He was once a little carpenter.
"To where you are, I always wanted to go,” he thought to himself. “I really miss you, Dad.”
His eyes grew tired holding back the tears. Like crystal drops, they started to fall at last.
Tear after tears; it flowed down his cheeks like morning dews in a summer spring.
Some of it took turns and wet those chapped lips.
He had a pair of crimson lips.
Those tears had caused the young man’s face grew lighter and lighter.
And there was indeed a fine-looking lad.
It was magical.
Like a lonely field that had been drought for years, a generous rain finally came and had ended it.
It was such a moment of his life.
Yesterday, the physician told him that the stage of the cancer went up.Those bad cells have dominated his whole body. It would not have happened if he listened to his friend’s advice to take medication several months ago:
“Are you okay Paolo?” he asked.
“I kind of feel sick, and I don’t know why”, he answered.
“Would you like me to take you to my clinic so that we could check?” said Jose.
They drove back to the city and went to Jose’s clinic. The physician made some physical tests to examine his friend’s
health. He waited days to see the results and could not believe when he found out that his friend had the killer disease.
To make sure of the results, Jose took several advices from some of the experts in town.
A hopeful friend he was.
But it did not have gone that far.
Epilogue
The chap was in pain.
That young man on a still bench was dying.
He was on his sunset.
The physician could have exhausted all of his knowledge and efforts to cure his friend.
His life should have been prolonged and restored.
It would have had happened if he chose to fight a little more.
He could have had.
He should have had.
He would have had.
But he didn’t.
We could not know why.
We could only believe what his friend said on that day of the funeral:
“Indeed, the gentleman had no regrets after all.”
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