The memories you share with someone you’ve known your whole life threaten to become nothing but private secrets when that person gets ill and eventually dies. that’s a deeply lonely feeling.
i hold my dad’s hand and it lacks the authority it once had. The command. It is soft, the fingers tapered, the veins pronounced. it’s cool to the touch and i hold it with my stronger grip, tentatively feeling for signs that it is weaker than the last time. that he may be slipping further away from me as we speak. i grasp it and am as grateful as anyone has ever been about anything that i have this one more moment.
Whether he has been hard or easy to love, my father has been mine. as he starts to go, a part of me is starting to go with him.