When my Father died I was holding his hand. His attendant was with us by the hospital bed in the family living room. I watched him tell her where to insert the tiny suction she was using. Suddenly I saw him seize and gasp, then I heard the loudest noise I have ever heard; a very large heavy door slammed shut. I watched his arched back return to the bed and his chin drop to his chest. His life was over. We had all suffered but none so much as him. Then I spoke to her, "Did you hear that?" She responded, "What?" I did not respond and knew the sound was for me alone. I helped dress him, his shoes were hard to put on and I felt very bad because I yearned for the comfort we could not give him. No, not even in death. He was born January 27, 1923 and died October 14, 2005 at home. I heard from him right after his death but since then nothing. I keep waiting to see him in a dream or hear his voice. I know he is here because his spirit dwells in my heart.
I once read that the child is the father of the man . . . so true. Then we only get older and journey towards our death. I love you.
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