“Maybe. But it’s not too late for you to die as a good one.”
I thought about that. About dying as a good man after living as a selfish one.
“Tell her yourself. She’s going to call in an hour. I’m going to hold the phone up to your ear so you can talk to your granddaughter before you go.”
More tears. I didn’t think I had any left.
Marcus spent the next six days with me. He was there when I talked to Sarah. When I heard her voice for the first and last time. When she called me Grandpa and told me about her children.
He was there when my own family didn’t come back.
He was there when the doctors said it was time.
He was there when I took my last breath.
The biker I tried to kill 43 years ago held my hand while I died. He prayed over me. He made sure I wasn’t alone.
I don’t know if there’s a heaven. I don’t know if I deserve forgiveness.
And in my final moments, a man in a leather vest with tattoos on his arms gave me something my respectable family never could.
He gave me peace.
