Mister Stanley

Mr. Stanley died today. His nurse had been puttering around in his room, straightening his bed clothes, taking his vital signs. He decided to let her have one more go at it. “Mr. Stanley,” she would say, “Your blood pressure is a little bit high. Think of pleasant things.” Mr. Stanley didn't know pleasant, or comfortable, or nice and kind. He was a man unto himself. Relatives had little choice but to see him – it was the duty of family to visit those who are sick. But in the past few days, less people visited. He wondered why – When he awoke in the morning of his last day of being earthbound, there was sunlight streaming through the windows. Mr. Stanley didn't approve of sunlight in his room and it dampened his spirits more. “Come close this damn shade,” he yelled, hoping someone would hear. He preferred calling out over pushing a button. Suddenly the shade seemed to matter less. Mr. Stanley felt a lightness, an incredible lightness; he took one last look around his tiny room and flew away.