"Where is he?" Andrews asked, running his hand through his gray hair.
     I shrugged. "He was just here a little while ago..."
     Andrews gray eyes were snapping. "Go find him, hurry. Tell him they've arrived."
     I blinked back in horror. "Me?! But I don't even know...."
     Mr. Andrew fixed me with one of his 'hurry and do it' looks, and I rushed off with a little sigh.
     I weaved in and out of the black-clad visitors, with subdued voices and pious frowns, peering into room after room. Finally, a dark clad figure with white hair sitting stooped in a chair, caught my eye. I stopped, and looked in the dimly lit room. Yes, it was him.
     For a second, I stared down at the dark patterned carpet, trying to think of what to say. Nothing came to me. Deep breath.
     "Mr. Billington...? Uh, Mr. Billington?" I spoke, softly.
     Slowly, he turned his eyes to me. They were filled with loss, and they were tired. I had, working at Capells funeral home, seen a lot of loss from people's broken hearts; but this was the strongest and most pure I had ever encountered.
     "I don't mean to...interrupt." I hesitated, sorry that I had broken in on him. Somehow, now that I looked in his eyes, it seemed as if I had shattered a sacred moment. I was forever feeling out of place...
     The older man was not responding to me, and I realized I was obliged to go on. Slowly, and gently, I gave him the message. "People are...arriving," I said, trying not to make it sound too urgent. "They're asking for you."
     His head turned slowly back to its old position, and a solitary tear travelled down the side of his motionless face. I swallowed hard, and looked away, resting my eyes on the little glass bowl of mints on the dresser next to the kleenex box. How alone he was. No children. No siblings. No parents left to grieve with him...
     Before it got too much more uncomfortable, Mr. Billington took a deep breath. A very deep breath. One that took in all the scent of the "condolence" flowers, and older women's strong perfume. Then slowly, he turned his eyes up to me, and patted the couch next to him. Like a grandpa. The grandpa he never got to be.
     Slowly, and quietly, I sat down on the edge of the couch, and looked back at him.
     "What is it?" I asked, hoping I wasn't remiss.
     It took him a little bit before he spoke. And when he did, his voice was very quiet, very low, and very sorrowful.
     "Never forget...." he said, looking me directly in the eyes, "where you came from...."
     I felt a little foolish for not understanding. Somehow, there was an intelligence in his words I knew I was missing.
     "Never forget," he continued, "where you are going."
     I blinked a few times, and nodded. "Oh, yes. I won't," I assured him, distracted, and hoping that Mr. Andrew wasn't looking for us.
     He shook his head very slowly. His eyes even more sad than before. "It's the only way."
     I focused once more. The only way?   
     He must have seen my confusion, for he answered the question I hadn't asked. "It's the only way to really live. And the only way to bear the sorrow and grief that comes with loss. The loss of someone you really loved."
     He pulled himself up out of the chair, and slowly slipped his arms into his over-coat. He looked down on me, and his eyes began to burn with a light. "I remember, too late, I think, where I am going."
     I don't know why I said it, but somehow it just came out. "It is never too late, Mr. Billington."
    He answered me, "I have wasted years, chasing after the nothing of this life. And now, when grief comes to touch the very heart of me, I am obliged to face the eternal."
     Obliged to face the eternal... The words burned into my heart.
     He straightened his jacket, and I handed him his cane. "We came from Him, and we're returning to Him," he said, taking the rose bud from his pocket and handing it to me. "That's what life is all about...that's what death is all about. "
     With a great rushing, Mr. Andrews hurried into the room. "Mr. Billington, there you are. Are you ready?" he asked. We both stood there staring at him a moment.
     "Are we ever ready, Mr. Andrews?" the old man asked, slipping his hand into his pocket.
     "Maybe not," Mr. Andrews said, with his little somewhat shallow laugh, and moved to let Mr. Billington get through.
     Before leaving, the old man turned around and I could not believe my eyes. A little tiny spark of a smile came into his face. A bitter-sweet smile. One that seemed to take all the strength he had left.
     "Don't forget," he said. "Don't forget." And he left, slowly, with Mr. Andrews trailing anxiously after him.
     I stood there for a moment, feeling somehow peaceful. I opened my hand, and looked down on the little rose bud, resting on my palm.  "Returning to Him...." I whispered to myself. "Obliged to face the eternal."