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.