It wasn't meant to end like this.  He should have gone out in a 
blaze of glory, stepping in front of the President to take a bullet, or 
shot by yet another irate husband, or surrounded by a hundred 
grandchildren.
     Not like this.  Not wasting away in a hospital bed from some 
unknown disease that the doctors couldn't do anything about.
     At least there hadn't been any pain.  That had been the one good 
thing about the last five years.  No pain.  Not physical anyway.  But 
there'd been plenty of heartache, for both of them.  Especially for 
himself.  Watching as first the light in his eyes had started dimming, 
and then as he started missing shots.  Shots that a year, a month, a 
week ago he could have hit blindfolded.  And then the years of denial.  
And then this last year.  When things had gotten so bad they were 
impossible to deny and all he could do was hold his hand and watch as he 
slowly slipped away, piece by piece.
     When did he first begin to love him?  It was hard to say, it had 
been so many years.  But he hadn't said anything, even though they both 
knew.  He'd left it up to him, who left it precisely where it belong -- 
unsaid.  Which made them a better team for it.
     He did know when that love had been returned.  It was that time 
when he'd thought the Pistoleros had killed him.  And just for a second 
everything was crystal clear.  But, as usual, he hadn't said anything. 
And now it was too late.
     Damn it!  It shouldn't end like this.  Between the two of them, 
they'd saved the country a hundred time.  And now he was lying there, 
half forgotten by the government he'd almost given his life to so many 
times.  It wasn't fair.
     And all he could do was sit beside him, trying to decide whether to 
pray for one more day or for God to end his suffering.
     Goodbye Artie.  Godspeed.





Dedicated to Pip, who finally gave in to leukemia on April 8, 1996.

Liz the Lamenting