We never talked about his impending death, Dad and I. For all the time I spent with him these last five months, we never had a single conversation about it. We talked about the present. We spoke carefully, avoiding verbs such as “will be” and mention of 2006. When the future insisted upon conversation, it would be about the upcoming holiday or December 17, the day I was to compelte my MS in leadership and business ethics, something he was so proud of. Short-term seemed safest. Less cruel.
On Thursday evening, the day he quit responding to us and slipped into that comatose state, we thought that the end was near. Not two days away. That evening, though, Dad opened his eyes and looked at me and my brother. Just stared. —The new year (Simple sentences sprinkled with hopes of complexity)
Powerful, very personal writing. The author actually contacted me to draw attention to her new year’s resolutions, so perhaps she’s ready to move on. I won’t be ready to move on from this blog entry, not for a while, anyway.
During this freak January warm spell, I took a half hour out of the day and went for a walk, exploring parts of campus I’ve never seen before. I took a look at the new athletic fields, and walked up the hill to the graveyard where the Sisters of Charity keep their dead.
My own father started ballroom dancing in his 60s, and is now past 70, still dancing. My older brother turned 40 the other day, so I’m not far behind.
It’s now a fairly routine task for me to prune the grey hairs that stick up like wires from my thinning head.
But life is good, and I am content.
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