In Memory of Horace

This week marks the twentieth anniversary of my father’s death. It is a date that I usually let slip from my memory. I don’t want to remember the day he died or the two days prior as he lay in a hospital bed, while I sat by his side day and night unable to find the words to say goodbye.

Yet, too many nights as I try to drift into sleep I see images of him during his last days. I replay the early Saturday morning telephone call from the doctor. “Your father had a massive heart attack last night. He is in the intensive care ward now. We don’t expect him to live more than a day or two.”

My heart still races when I recall how I rushed to his side, finding him engulfed in beeping machines and an entanglement of electrical monitors.

I wish that I could forget watching helplessly as he shared what it felt like as his organs failed to function. It was the last lesson he taught me. He was a penultimate learner and teacher. I am so grateful to have had him as my father.

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