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.
One thought on “In Memory of Horace”
What a beautiful statement to share with us all, Linda
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