It's been one year since my Father died. It seems like ages since that day. Funny how I can still remember the last few minutes of his life.
My Father was still breathing, but barely, and shallow. Ever so often, he made a couple of bodily noises. Stretched out in his lazy boy, just like he wanted to be, and had been for three days. I can still see him laying there, covered with his favorite stripped afghan in brown, black and white. I looked at him. This shell of an old man housed the soul of the father I once knew.
The house was quite. The television was off. The doors were open since the weather was nice. The sun shined. We just waited. My Father's girlfriend, Dorothy, was pacing, looking for something. Maybe she was in heavy denial of what was happening. My Sister, Robin, went about her business, keeping busy with housework. The house was quite, except for a stir now and then from him.
The clock read two, in the afternoon. A typical Monday afternoon for most of the world. I had called work to say I wouldn't be in and that the end was near. We just waited.
There was a tap at the kitchen screen door. Our cousin, Cathy, had stopped by to check in. She had two of her grand-kids with her. We hugged as was the custom with her. She came in and sat down on the couch across from my Father. Plain old beige couch with speckled upholstery of tan.
We were talking about what was going on -- my work, her kids, Robin's kids, Aunt Carolyn, what's going to happen next. She wanted our addresses, so I sat down at the counter that separated the living room and kitchen. Dorothy came in and lost it next to my Father. Robin took her to the back bedroom and put her to bed. I was writing my address. Cathy stopped talking. And then there was total silence.
Cathy said one word. "Chris." She looked at me and pointed at my Father. Robin had just stepped back into the room. It was a moment when it felt like time had came to a standstill. For just a brief moment, the clocks stopped ticking. Everyone in the world stood motionless. I felt like a slow-motion figure. He was gone. In an instance. One moment, then the next. At 2:30 in the afternoon.
Moments like these stick with you, no matter what you do to rid your mind of them. Like my Mother's final moments, my Father's will too. And I will treasure them because I was one of the lucky ones to be there to see them off to new adventures.
CSM
My Father was still breathing, but barely, and shallow. Ever so often, he made a couple of bodily noises. Stretched out in his lazy boy, just like he wanted to be, and had been for three days. I can still see him laying there, covered with his favorite stripped afghan in brown, black and white. I looked at him. This shell of an old man housed the soul of the father I once knew.
The house was quite. The television was off. The doors were open since the weather was nice. The sun shined. We just waited. My Father's girlfriend, Dorothy, was pacing, looking for something. Maybe she was in heavy denial of what was happening. My Sister, Robin, went about her business, keeping busy with housework. The house was quite, except for a stir now and then from him.
The clock read two, in the afternoon. A typical Monday afternoon for most of the world. I had called work to say I wouldn't be in and that the end was near. We just waited.
There was a tap at the kitchen screen door. Our cousin, Cathy, had stopped by to check in. She had two of her grand-kids with her. We hugged as was the custom with her. She came in and sat down on the couch across from my Father. Plain old beige couch with speckled upholstery of tan.
We were talking about what was going on -- my work, her kids, Robin's kids, Aunt Carolyn, what's going to happen next. She wanted our addresses, so I sat down at the counter that separated the living room and kitchen. Dorothy came in and lost it next to my Father. Robin took her to the back bedroom and put her to bed. I was writing my address. Cathy stopped talking. And then there was total silence.
Cathy said one word. "Chris." She looked at me and pointed at my Father. Robin had just stepped back into the room. It was a moment when it felt like time had came to a standstill. For just a brief moment, the clocks stopped ticking. Everyone in the world stood motionless. I felt like a slow-motion figure. He was gone. In an instance. One moment, then the next. At 2:30 in the afternoon.
Moments like these stick with you, no matter what you do to rid your mind of them. Like my Mother's final moments, my Father's will too. And I will treasure them because I was one of the lucky ones to be there to see them off to new adventures.
CSM
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