almost Home.

1:02am.

i am holding vigil at Dad’s bedside. Bill took the after-dinner shift so that i could sleep. we sent Mom to bed with explicit instructions to rest through the night. i set my alarm for 11:45pm, but awakened abruptly at 12:34am. somewhere in the brainfog of death, i had set a weekday alarm.

there are no gory details to share. this is a moment in space and time for the upmost dignity and respect. a final farewell to the Man i am blessed to call my Dad.

he would laugh at me when i called him Father— what a fun teen phase that must have been for my parents. (insert eye roll.)

my Dad never called me a Princess— he just showed me what it looked like to have my very own castle and fly on aeroplanes and eat fancy meals in the city after dark and meet the most incredibly talented and brilliant people on the planet. my Dad taught me how to “walk in and act like you own the place.” — still a favorite of mine.

my Dad taught me, that for family, we do whatever we can. whatever it takes.

the bond between Mother + Child is undeniable. a womb. a cord. a sharing and a bearing of the inside of her being to nourish this new generation of Life.

but Father is different.

i know a little more of this difference, due to the striking contrast between my relationship with my Dad, versus the relationship my children have with their… biological father.

Father isn’t the guarantee it used to be.

but i must have caught the tail end of the blessing, before the good Men had all died out. before the fallen world whore + her most regular client, modern society, absolutely destroyed anything and everything beautiful about Man.

i am thankful i got a good one.

i write this from the floor of his and Mom’s bedroom doorway. a door that represents, to me, a Man’s Love for his Wife. a magic portal to romance and fighting for the marriage and secrets that only they shared with each other. Mom slumbers in the room directly to my right— my childhood room— tucked into Lola’s current bed. Lola is spending the next few nights at Uncle Bill and Aunt Kristina’s.

because for family, we do whatever we can.

the image above is my current view, as i write from the floor of the hallway— the unmade guest bed where i have been sleeping for the last nearly four months, preparing for this day. the small pile of clothes i have yet to address. a little bedside lamp turned to on. a painting of the sun playing with the ocean. and, of course, a terribly awful lot of darkness.

thankyou for the prayers, dear souls. keep them coming. the process is in motion, but there is still a little fight left in his bones. i am glad he is tenacious. i have that in me, too.

he looked at me the other day, and asked me three separate times, “what is the point of all of this?”

i responded, “i think the point is to keep going until you can't go anymore."

rest easy, my sweet Daddy.