Some time ago, not long before the summer, he said to me
that he is proud of  the way he lived and that he now
understood that pride couldn't be taken away unless you let
it go. See- he knew he was going to die, and like most
people who know, decided to tell no one.

We met in an old bus station. It was pouring rain, and I ran
for shelter and he, who also saw umbrellas as a useless
self-indulgence was already sitting on the bench, his hair
soaking wet with a dark coat and the remainings of what
seemed to be a newspaper. As I sat down, he offered me a
cigarette. An
old man, with silver crisp hair and a smile of  a loveable
grandpa, the bottle next to him was empty and by the gaze on
his face I could see straight away where did all the liquor
go.
"No thank you" I said. He lit one for himself and we both
just sat there,watching the drops all around us, as if we
were watching a movie, a father and daughter in an empty
theatre hall. After a while he spoke again, some courtesy
question about my destination. After a short chat about the
weather, his back, my allergy to bees, and a funny story
about two cats, a hammer and a golf-course, he told me about
his pride- his two sons. I smiled, and not having children
of my own I showed him a picture of my dog (Bismarck) that I
keep in my wallet. A group of young men went by, laughing
loud, each with a black umbrella in his hand. He almost
called out for them but decided not to. When the rain began
to soften he stood up, stretched his arms and as he raised
his hand I could see the numbers on his arm. He wasn't going
away,
apparently, because he sat back down, then slide a little to
his right,lifted his feet to the bench, and rest down his
head. He was going to sleep. Somewhat shocked I stood up and
left. I could hear him sighing behind me, his back hurt. I
never looked back. It was scary and weird and alltogether
not for me.

I saw his picture in the newspaper, the words beneath
mentioned a funeral time (15.30) and I decided to go.
I was the only one there.