Two Months

My father died two months ago today.  In some ways it feels like a lifetime ago.  In some ways it feels like yesterday.

My sister and I watched him take his last breath.  It was as if that final gasp sucked all of the oxygen out of the room.  My chest was tight, my heart was heavy.  I gasped, too.

I took his hand.  His skin was cold.  I shivered.

His body leaned to one side in the bed.  I felt limp.  I sat down next to him.  I hugged my sister.

I could hear his voice in my head.  Singing – deep, powerful, filling the room.  He never needed a microphone.

I could hear his words, his advice, his laugh, his jokes, swirling through my head – my pounding head.

I hadn’t left the hospital in five days.  It felt good to finally go outside and take a breath of the crisp winter air.  It filled my lungs and brought a flush to my cheeks.  Unlike my father’s collapsed lungs and sallow face.

But that’s not how I will remember him.  I will remember his twinkling green eyes behind his glasses.  His soft hands.  His voice.  That voice.

Always singing to me.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.