He had worked on metropolitan newspaper copy desks for more than forty years, but now, as his body failed, his family had been told by the doctors that the end was very close.
They gathered at the bedside as he dozed, his hands feebly plucking at the coverlet now and again.
Then his eyes opened, and he recognized them, and he said, feebly, “Flags are flown at half-staff to honor someone who has died; they are only at half-mast on ships.”
His eyes closed again.
His breathing was a little labored but steady.
And again his eyes opened and he stirred. “The plural possessive of Jones is Joneses’ ee ess apostrophe.”
He seemed calmer then, and his breathing slowed. He seemed to sleep.
Suddenly, he struggled, trying vainly to rise up. A nurse propped a couple of pillows behind him.
He looked around at his gathered family and said, the words coming slowly, with effort. “Copy desk is two words. Copy editing is two words. And copy editor is —”
His head fell back. It was over.