By Harry Watts

The screen door squealed in protest as the old man pushed it open and stepped out onto the porch. A late afternoon breeze ruffled his thinning hair, and he paused for a moment to enjoy the coolness that signaled the approach of autumn—his favorite time of year. Two well-worn rockers waited patiently for him, as always. He remembered when those rockers were new and freshly painted, but time had long since stolen the paint, exposing the underlying wood to the elements. His daughter called it a deathtrap and had often threatened to take it away and burn it, but so far, she had not followed through.

The man sighed as he made his way to one of the rockers and slowly lowered himself into the well-worn seat. Closing his eyes, he waited for the familiar pain in his legs to subside. After a while, he relaxed and began to rock, the creaking sound of the runners comforting him, providing a rhythm to his nightly ritual. The porch faced the setting sun, and for many years he had sat there with his wife, watching the day come to a close. At first, he had done it only for her. She loved the sunsets, and he loved her, so each evening he joined her on the porch, holding her hand as they rocked side by side. Over time, he found himself growing fond of these sunsets—of ending the day beside the one he loved most.

Last year, she had found a growth, and the doctors said it was terminal. He had been devastated, but she accepted it with grace. She refused invasive treatments that would steal away what little time she had left. He had argued at first, urging her to fight, to consider all the options. But she, as always, had been patient, and eventually, he relented. She chose palliative care at home—days filled with quiet moments and evenings with him on the porch, her hand in his as the sun dipped below the horizon. “I think I will miss these evenings most of all,” she said one night, her voice soft as she squeezed his hand. He turned to look at her, trying to smile, but tears betrayed him. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” he whispered, gently stroking her cheek. “I know,” she replied. “I know.”

The end came gently, without warning. One evening, as they watched the sun fade, he felt her hand grow limp in his, and he knew she was gone. As the final rays of sunlight painted the sky, he spoke to her, his voice breaking, “Goodbye, my love. Look for me. I will join you soon.” He leaned over, kissed her forehead, and the tears came in a flood. After sixty years together, she left him alone that night—an empty chair beside him, and a hole in his heart that nothing in this world could fill.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. He continued to sit on the porch each evening, thinking of her. He left her rocker in place, resting his hand on its arm while he rocked alone. Each creak of his own chair was a memory, a whisper of the life they’d shared. That evening, as the sun began its descent, he felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the pain that had become all too frequent. The doctor had called it angina and given him pills for the pain. He started to rise, to take his medication, but something stopped him, and he sank back into his chair. He noticed the sun had disappeared, and fireflies were emerging in the twilight, their tiny lights dancing in the fading dusk.

He closed his eyes, waiting as the pain overtook him, growing stronger until he could no longer feel anything else. Then, at last, he felt it give way—replaced by a warmth, a light that surrounded him. He opened his eyes and found himself standing in a place beyond time, surrounded by loved ones who had long since departed. But he searched only for her, and suddenly, she was there, her hand reaching for his. “Hello, my love,” she said, her smile as bright as the dawn. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Tears of joy filled his eyes, spilling down his cheeks. He had come home at last.

His daughter found him that night. She kissed his cheek and smoothed his hair. There was a smile on his face, and his hand, resting on the arm of her mother’s rocker, looked as though it were holding something. Understanding flooded her, and she gently slipped her hand into his, holding it for a long moment. “Goodbye, Daddy,” she whispered. “Tell Mom I love her. I’ll see you both again one day.”

• A Tale of Two Caterpillars
• Behold the Lamb
• Branches of Memory: A Tale of Friendship and Loss
• God in Modernity
• Going Home
• Guilt and Grace
• Home
• The Encounter
• The Innkeeper
• The Journey Home
• The Last Goodbye
• The Last Sunset
• The Redeemer