SO JOSEPH SETTLED HIS FATHER and brothers in Goshen, providing everything necessary for their comfort. He visited his father as often as he could, and he was generous and affectionate with his brothers, caring for their wives and children and helping them in every crisis. Slowly they began to trust him.
Joseph remained in the good graces of Pharaoh and his successor until the end of his life, and he continued to benefit the whole country with his compassionate wisdom. The years came and went. Jacob died. Joseph’s sons had families of their own. The grandchildren became adults. Decades more went by. Joseph grew old, gracefully. He was able to continue working until the final two weeks of his life. Then his body began to shut down, and he took to his bed. He knew he was dying. Asenath knew it too.
All his adult life he had been living without a future, and it was no different now. His mind wasn’t tempted to leap ahead of itself, into thoughts of what might or might not happen after the body died. Whatever state of existence or nonexistence followed, he trusted that it would be good. He didn’t question the intelligence that had created everything in the universe and had led him with such astonishing kindness to this culminating moment.
He was fond of his body. It had been a faithful companion, never complaining, even when he had given it the most rigorous tasks and pushed it to its limits. It had always done its best, like a well-trained horse or a dog that adores its master. It had served him well, and now, when it needed to stop living, he had no quarrel with it.
Nor would he be sorry to leave his identity behind. He had enjoyed it, this collection of thoughts and passions that people had called “Joseph” or “Meri-Amun” or “Zaphnath-paneakh.” More than enjoyed: he had great respect for it. It had known when to properly assert itself and when to step out of the way and give itself over to the unnamable. At those moments, there was not a trace of doing in it. It was a transparent vessel, an instrument, grateful to be used. But he was ready to leave this cherished identity behind now, along with the rest of his world, even his children, even his endlessly beloved Asenath. He had no regrets. There was nothing further he wished for, nothing he had left undone. Everything was coming to completion, like a long piece of music that has almost arrived at its final chord.
On the last day, he and Asenath gazed into each other’s eyes. There was no fear or sorrow in them, only love.