Page 180 of Love, Rekindled

He slipped into unconsciousness over twenty-four hours ago, and we called the hospice nurse out. She checked his urine output—yes, I’ve become adept at emptying his catheter bag—and took his vitals. In a low voice, she told us it wouldn’t be long.

I come out of the hallway and get my first glimpse of the living room. My dad is lying in the bed, the blanket pulled up to mid-chest. My mom is sound asleep in the recliner beside him, an old afghan draped over her shoulders. The dawning sun casts a yellow glow over the room, and I place my duffel quietly on the floor at the top of the staircase.

I move silently, not wanting to wake my mom up. It doesn’t matter with Dad, as chances of him rousing are minimal. Nearing the bed, I note with a smile how peaceful my dad looks in his deep sleep, hopefully secured far away from the pain and torment of dying.

And then I notice how utterly peaceful he looks.

My heart thuds to a painful stop in my chest, and a wave of terror hits me. While I’ve been living every moment these last twenty-four hours knowing that death is imminent and could happen between one breath and the next, I’m not prepared for the reality of it.

I approach the bed hesitantly, my hand shaking as I reach toward my father. My eyes strain in the morning gloom to see if I can tell whether or not he’s breathing. I press my palm against his face and then reel backward, away from the icy chill of his skin.

My father is dead.

There’s no stopping the flood of tears that assault my eyes, and I do nothing but periodically blink to dispel them. They come in wave after wave, so I don’t even bother wiping the wetness from my cheeks.

I take my dad’s hand, curl my fingers around it, and rest my hip against the railing of the bed as I stare down at him.

Yes, he looks so very peaceful. There’s even a slight smile playing on his lips, and I’d like to believe it means he was thinking of something happy in his last moments on this Earth.

I think of the conversation we had the day before yesterday, and now I’m the one who smiles.

Still crying, but smiling all the same.

I’d sat by his bed and, upon Wylde’s advice, had a conversation with my father like no other.

“Dad,” I’d said. “I just want you to know that I love you very much.”

My dad blinked in surprise, and his eyes got emotional and wet. They were words I didn’t give him very often because they were things we just didn’t say a lot to each other. They were awkward and heavy, yet I didn’t fumble over them at all. I spoke from the heart, wanting no regrets to weigh me down.

“I love you, son,” he’d replied. “I wish we had more time together.”

I took his hand, and it was all the encouragement he needed. His feelings came pouring out in a litany of love, fervent wishes, and wisdom for me to follow throughout my life. He apologized for not being a better dad, and I assured him that he was the best. He advised me to seek love and hold on to it hard, and I told him I was working on it. He knew I meant Calliope, and he merely nodded.

My dad got me to promise to always look after my mom, and even told me that he hoped she’d find love again one day.

Finally, he reminded me to live my life with honor, kindness, and integrity. We talked for forty minutes, a non-stop and welcome diatribe of parental advice from a dying man to his son, condensed down for time management.

Thinking about it now, I hope I never forget a word of what he said, or a minute of that time when I sat there holding his hand.

Before he nodded off to sleep, I told him something that I thought was necessary for him to understand. “Dad...Mom and I are going to be all right. I don’t want you to worry about us. You need to move on from this life, knowing that we will survive, strong in your memory, and bound by your love. Don’t hang on, Dad. Let go and be at peace.”

And he had.

Blinking away the memory, I return to the present, not sure how long I stand there, clutching my dad’s cold hand. He’s not here anymore. Not really.

Eventually, I let it go and move to my mom’s side. I squat by her chair and gently shake her by the shoulder. The minute her eyes open and land on mine, understanding filters in, and she starts to cry. I fold her in my arms and hold her for a very long time.

There’s nothing but the two of us in our grief until I sense that it’s not just the two of us anymore.

I pull back from my mom, who sniffles hard and looks over my shoulder as I straighten.

Calliope is standing there, her eyes pinned on my father. I didn’t even hear the front door open.

Slowly, her gaze drags over to me, and her words stun me. “I just woke up and...felt that you needed me.”

I take her in. She’s in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, and her hair is a mess. Her feet are stuffed into unlaced tennis shoes, and it’s clear she hurried out of her apartment.

Of course she felt like I needed her. Because I did. Ido. It speaks to our bond, and no words are necessary to explain it.

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