"nonspecific"

There were 6 of us waiting for him in the room. He arrived on a wheelchair pushed by a male nurse, fresh from a CT scan. He was smiling and making jokes that under other circumstances I would possibly have found funny. He climbed onto the bed with the help of his wife, in obvious pain. He joined in the conversation, his voice animated but his posture strained. I couldn't look. I tried to immerse myself, unsuccessfully, in a copy of Hemingway's The Old Man and The Sea that I found neglected in the room, a recalcitrant tear trickling down the corner of my eye.

I wasn't quite sure if there was more pain or pretense that it was bearable.

When I said goodbye, he whispered that he was going to get better. To calm the concern that he felt in my embrace or to convince himself--- I didn't know. I kissed him before I left, and he smelled of sweet summer long past when, from morning 'til night and all the hours in between, there was only him. And I felt utterly happy.