I was old, feeble; it was my time to go. I had lived in New York since my birth, and I was content to die there. Every day I went down to the park and sat on my bench. It was old and a little rickety, covered in faded green paint and deep scratches. Like myself, it had been through a lot.
When I was a young man, I had the world at my fingertips. Then, the draft. I chose the Marine Corps, figuring if I was going to "go", I would "go" in a big way. Death never came. My squad was attacked on three separate occasions. I saw my friends dying around me, but it never really got to me. I was a good soldier, I served my time and killed when I was told. I came back to the states and was greeted as a hero. People were grateful for what I had done. I wasn't. My friends were dead, and I had to live with that. I changed.
So, I sat on that old, weathered bench every day. I watched the young people around me, so full of life and happiness. I pitied them, knowing things wouldn't always be "rainbows and puppy dogs". Still, I envied them. I wanted my youth back.
Then, two days ago, I had a heart attack. I sat on the bench for a little while and felt a pain in ny chest. I called out for help, but didn't expect anyone to come over. Regardless, they came. People of all races, sexes, sizes, colors; they all came to help me, genuinely concerned. I had not been forgotten. There, on my bench, surrounded by people who cared, I died with a smile on my face. There was still hope yet.
