August 18, 2005

 

What I remember of his death: the way his jaw hung open, utterly defunct. But before that, I remember waking and feeling a cold settle across my chest. Almost like a burning. I was afraid to move my arms. I didn’t understand it. And then, Mom’s voice from the door. Girls. That’s what she said. Girls.

The night before, or maybe two nights before, it had been he who was begging her with a furious urgency that they needed to get the girls and go. They had to leave. Quickly. With the girls. That parental urge. Always thinking of the us, even when death is coming for you and you cannot swing your legs over the side of the bed.

Now it was she who beckoned us. Come, girls, your father is dying.

Was there one more breath? I think so. I think we sat beside him for his final breath. But here is what's surprising about that final breath: you don’t know it’s the last. It’s just another breath, like the one that came before it. And then there’s a silence. Lots and lots of silence. And a waiting. And then that silence and that waiting stretch out and become the road you will be walking on for the rest of your days.