The gnarled oak stood resolute, its branches splayed like mourning fingers. Underneath, the Grim Reaper stood silent, his tattered cloak devouring the dawn’s frail light. In an outstretched hand he held a scythe, its blade gleaming with a cold, prismatic sheen.

From the kitchen window, Frank watched, willing the Reaper to go away. His weathered hands clutched a chipped coffee mug, its warmth a fleeting shield to the empty house.

“You know what he wants,” Mary said. “Give it to him.”

Frank didn’t hear her, too busy staring daggers at the Reaper. It was always there, looming under the oak, lurking in the hallway, or lingering at the hospital.

“Frank, can you hear me?” Mary asked, louder this time.

Frank twisted the dial on his hearing aid. “What?”

“You’re as deaf as a loaf of bread. I told you to give him what he wants.” She exaggeratedly pronounced each word.

“What he wants,” Frank muttered to himself, shaking his head at the audacity. He sipped his coffee and nearly spat it out. He’d never get used to the fake sugar Mary forced on him; it was too bitter and tasted like chemicals.

“Frank, did you hear me?” she asked, nearly screaming.

“I heard you just fine,” he said, matching her volume. He actually didn’t, but she didn’t need to know that.

“He’s not a bad man,” Mary said. Frank shook his head, hoping she’d drop it.

“He’s just doing his job. You can’t really blame him. Plus, at least he’s kind enough to wait.”

“Yeah, kind,” Frank muttered. He drained the mug, the bitter aftertaste lingering like regret.

“Micah’s coming today,” Mary said.

Frank didn’t answer, still watching the Reaper. He wanted to hate the thing; to see it as a villain who enjoyed its morbid duty. However, deep down, he knew it didn’t take any pleasure. If anything, it was sad.

He heard Mary inhale, gearing up to scream.

“I heard you, damnit. I know Micah’s coming.”

Frank abandoned his vigil and shuffled to the barn-red kitchen table. His knees creaked like rusted hinges as he sat down. The Reaper now skulked in the hallway, partially obscured by the refrigerator.

“Go away,” Frank said, shooing at it. His knuckles grazed the table, and pain shot up his arm. “Damn it all,” he said, grabbing his hand. Blood trickled, seeping into the deep creases of his skin. “I swear I could bump a pillow, and I’d bleed like a stuck pig.”

“Well, we are old,” Mary said, chuckling. More gently, she added, “We’ve lived a long time; longer than most. Maybe it’s time.”

“Time my ass,” Frank said, grabbing a napkin from the table and dabbing at the cut.

“Don’t get an attitude with me, old man,”

Frank barked a laugh, but it faded fast. “Yes, ma’am. I know you’re right, I just don’t like it.”

“It ain’t about liking it or not,” Mary said. “We don’t really have a choice. No matter how hard we hold on, eventually we’ve got to let go.”

Let go. Like a broken record, his kids, pastor, and doctors all said the same thing: “Let go.” Easy for them to say. They didn’t know what it meant to unclench a fist that had been held for a lifetime.

“Frank?” she asked. He wished she’d stop. He wanted things to go back to normal.

“You remember when you used to write me letters, back when we first married?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember what you wrote in every one?”

“Love you to the moon and back?”

She laughed. “Well, yeah, I guess that’s true, but it’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.” His voice broke, and he closed his eyes. “I told you I’d never let you go and never leave.”

“You don’t have to keep that promise, ok? You can let go.”

“I don’t know what to do without you.” He squeezed his eyes tighter, but the tears still fell, running down the furrows in his wrinkled face.

“You got plenty to do. You got the kids and grandkids, you got football, you got golf. Just enjoy it while you can. Promise me that.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He knew what he had to do, but knowing doesn’t make it easier.

For 78 years, Frank had been an oak tree for their family, with thick branches, persisting through storms and drought. However, if he were an oak, then Mary was his roots; the source of his strength. She’d given him so much, so this time, he could be the strong one. He steeled himself and squeezed her hand one last time.

Then he did the hardest thing he had ever done. He let her go.

“I love you,” Frank said. “Save me a spot, will ya?”

“I love you too, old man.” Her voice faded, leaving Frank alone.

Frank opened his eyes. The Reaper was still there, waiting patiently.

“Ok,” Frank said.

The Reaper didn’t move, as if giving Frank the opportunity to retract the words. “You can take her. Just … Please, don’t leave me here too long without her.”

Finally, the Reaper offered a slight bow of his head and vanished.

The front door creaked open, and Micah stepped inside. “Hey, G-Dad, you ready?”

Frank wiped his eyes and pushed himself up from the table.

“You ok, G-Dad?”

“Yeah, boy,” Frank said, pushing Micah towards the door. “I’m right as rain. Let’s go say goodbye to your Granny.”

At the door, Frank paused, taking one last look at the empty house. The Reaper was gone, off to comfort some other soul. Mary was gone too, but she had never been there, not really. Right now, Mary was in the hospital, unresponsive. Frank had held on longer than he should have, refusing to admit she wasn’t going to get better. It was time now, though.

“I’ll see you soon, Mary,” Frank said, with a steady heart and calm mind. Then he stepped outside into the morning light, shutting the door behind him.