Wisdom from A Dying Fire

He lay still on his sickbed, almost lifeless. I guessed he must have used all of his last energy to raise his hand, and his squint eyes peered the league of friends that gathered around him. 

"Debayo, where is Debayo?" His frail and dying voice commanded silence. The silence seemed like a moment of last respect for a national veteran; maybe that was his end and his friends, somehow knowing that, just had to give it to him. 

"I'm here father." I said as I made my way through the circle. It was even strange what sort of circus his was. I wondered if he had been part of a confraternity, as most faces there were strange except for the two men that stood closest to him. I remember one very well, his name is Williams. My father would always call him Willo. The other was not as frequent in our house, but I remember he was called Brokan. 

My father's hand was different now, and his veins looked tired of performing their primary function. 

"Father, you called for me," 

"Debayo, " he said, seeming to struggle with his tongue "look at this faces..." 

He coughed. 

"They are not just my friends they are my whole body, each a part of my makeup ."

Those were his last words. 

I'm 23 today, and I think I understand what father said. 

Only I understand, the wisdom from the heart of a dying fire. 

Rest in peace, OH FATHER. 

I see your trail in the sky every night.