The last conversation I had with my Father, I think I knew it was the last.
A voice at the back of my head said, oh, you should tell him what's going on with you. Tell him you're writing a book. Tell him you're happy, or sad, or scared, or whatever. Share yourself.
But what came out instead was I love you, Papa. And he said, I love you too, yes I do.
I didn't believe what I knew, so I smiled and hung up and went about my normal day with a neutral mood and allowed myself to be frazzled by stupid stuff like the next day's deadlines and schedules and how Marks and Spencer was about to close and I should run there to get dinner.
And that was that. The end, for me, of my relationship with my Father in this physical life. And it came as I thought about my dinner and my hunger and my deadlines.
Days later, I stood by his hospital bed, and we knew that he would not wake up, no matter what, no matter how much music we played or how much we talked to him. I wanted to tell him so many things and people said that he'd be able to hear me, or sense what I was saying. I thought I'd tell him I was writing a book, or that I was sad, or scared, or happy, or fine, or not. I thought I would say that I had always loved and admired him, that he was (?is) my hero. I thought I'd ask if he hated me for being in England while he was ill, that I missed his last day of consciousness, that I was thinking about Marks and Spencer during our last conversation. I thought of saying sorry for so many things. Thank you for so many more. Small and big. Compelling, banal, life. I thought I'd recount every memory of the two of us, memories that were flooding my mind. But all that came out, again and again, loudly, softly, silently, in every possible way, was I love you, Papa.
I thought I'd say don't go, I'm scared, please stay, I need you. But all that came out was I love you.
Maybe that is all that matters.
A voice at the back of my head said, oh, you should tell him what's going on with you. Tell him you're writing a book. Tell him you're happy, or sad, or scared, or whatever. Share yourself.
But what came out instead was I love you, Papa. And he said, I love you too, yes I do.
I didn't believe what I knew, so I smiled and hung up and went about my normal day with a neutral mood and allowed myself to be frazzled by stupid stuff like the next day's deadlines and schedules and how Marks and Spencer was about to close and I should run there to get dinner.
And that was that. The end, for me, of my relationship with my Father in this physical life. And it came as I thought about my dinner and my hunger and my deadlines.
Days later, I stood by his hospital bed, and we knew that he would not wake up, no matter what, no matter how much music we played or how much we talked to him. I wanted to tell him so many things and people said that he'd be able to hear me, or sense what I was saying. I thought I'd tell him I was writing a book, or that I was sad, or scared, or happy, or fine, or not. I thought I would say that I had always loved and admired him, that he was (?is) my hero. I thought I'd ask if he hated me for being in England while he was ill, that I missed his last day of consciousness, that I was thinking about Marks and Spencer during our last conversation. I thought of saying sorry for so many things. Thank you for so many more. Small and big. Compelling, banal, life. I thought I'd recount every memory of the two of us, memories that were flooding my mind. But all that came out, again and again, loudly, softly, silently, in every possible way, was I love you, Papa.
I thought I'd say don't go, I'm scared, please stay, I need you. But all that came out was I love you.
Maybe that is all that matters.
