I’ve been riding the bus for a week to be nice to my ankle. Waiting for the bus is one of the hardest parts of the day in relation to my father, although I suppose the bike ride in was hard as well. Remembering Dad when I visited in November is how I mostly remember him. The week before he died doesn’t serve much as a memory of him, but the last day definitely does.

I have a very distinct memory of my mother and I sitting on the bed with my father. Despite the northwest exposure of the spare bedroom he was in on the first floor, there was a lot of sunlight in the room. He hadn’t spoken for a while and barely moved. He was laid back with a couple pillows propping him up a bit and blankets neatly tucked around him. He looked old far beyond his years. He would sometimes open and close his mouth a couple of times, like old men do, making a moistening sound. I looked down, and there was a tear running from his eye. I felt an acceptance in him, comfort, maybe regret. Maybe these were feelings I was feeling and imposing on him.

This memory is really hard for me. It is the final good memory I have of him, so it carries upon it the burden of all the feelings related to his death. It makes me incredibly sad and pulls away from me the comforts of the distraction of going through the routine of another day. One foot. Then another. One day. Then another. Do what is important. Make progress. And Love.