Fifteen years is long, for a prison sentence. Fifteen years for the rest of your life seems like the wink of an eye. As my father was dying, talking to me suddenly as his beloved son and not a lifelong adversary who’d gotten his young father’s back up by staring at him accusingly from my crib, he expressed a feeling that stays with me.
“I wish we could have talked like this fifteen years ago,” the dying man told me, after getting a lot off his chest, with no grief for either of us.
At the time I thought “seriously, you’d settle for fighting like rabid rats for 35 years and then 15 years of peace?” A sadly modest request that fifteen years seemed to me.
He died the next evening and I suddenly understood that fifteen years to speak humanely to each other would have been a great blessing to everyone. So would fifteen months have been, or fifteen weeks, or fifteen days, or even fifteen more hours.
When the other person breathes his last, there is only the silence and the love that might have been.