Stephan Pearson’s last lucid moment came as a surprise on the evening of the fifth day. Rolph Eriksen, whom I had urged to stay longer that day, was alone with me in the living room at the time. Mary was in the kitchen. Although Steve had muttered incoherently at wide intervals throughout the day, he had shown no signs of consciousness since noon. We were not expecting to see any now.
But all at once he sighed loudly. We shot to his side. His eyes opened, big as saucers, peering straight up through the dim light of the room, as though there were no ceiling.
His breathing quickened. His lips quivered. His eyes fairly burst from their sockets. His head snapped up off the pillow.
“Look!
“Look!!!
“O my dear God!
“There they are!
“There they are!”
Awestruck, he held that position, eyes aflame, mouth agape, for several seconds.
Then his head fell back onto the pillow, his eyes closed. And with one deep final breath, he was gone.
Mary had joined us. We stood around him in silence. No one dared to move.
Then quietly I went over to the window and drew back the curtains. The setting sun dazzled my eyes. I stepped to one side, out of its direct light. From that angle, the bursting buds on the lilacs just outside the window looked like tiny flames of fire about to explode into life.
“Mary! Rolph! Look at this!”