So today marks two years since my father’s passing. This whole month has taken me down a memory lane filled with the most lasting painful memories I’ve ever made.
Knowing that, whenever I visited my father I was seeing him move inevitably closer to that final goodbye, knowing that every time I heard his weakening voice I needed to capture that precious sound before it was gone forever.
One Saturday afternoon, soon after his diagnosis, he called me. Postpartum and overwhelmed, I had just snapped up my laptop and run out of the house near tears after telling my husband I’d be back.
Ever reasonable and definitely not averse to my getting out of the house alone, K’s only questions were where I was going (the nearest Starbucks), and when I expected to return (I wasn’t sure). It turned out to be about 3 hours, which I spent binge-watching “Arrow” on Netflix with a gigantic cup of tea.
My father’s call arrived just as I parked the car. So I answered, and I’m sure he could tell I was upset, because after greeting me and ascertaining where I was and why I was there, his first question was, “Do you have time to talk?” And my heartfelt answer was, “For you, always.”
I just wish I could still honor that promise.