During the past couple of years I called Dad several times a week. The past six months of his life the conversations became shorter and I could sense his desire to be brief and end the call. When I visited he would tell me that my calls were reassuring to him.
Two Sundays ago as I was bringing the paper in from the porch it struck me that that I wouldn’t be calling him anymore. The short minute phone calls would be no more. Today I read his diary from this past year and all those phone calls are catalogued, along with the other happenings of his life that he wanted to remember.
His words reveal a painful year as his handwriting became less and less clear of itself. No great pearls of wisdom, but the diary reveals a man who suffered greatly. I couldn’t make it any better for him. I couldn’t even give him a decent hug. That last weekend all I could do was sit and wait with him, and that was enough. At last.