Here I am. Riding down the road. I know he’s in bad shape, that’s why he went to The Hospice House.
I start to cry, acting like I’m looking out the window, trying to hide my face so my mom won’t see. The only thing I can think about is losing him.
Mom hears me sniffling, and all she can do is cry. Hearing me cry makes her upset.
About fifteen minutes later, we pull up in the parking lot, both of us getting out the car wiping our tears away.
As we walk in the front door mama says, “I’m telling you now, he’s in very bad shape”.
***

I walk into his hospice room going straight to his bed. Never hesitating. Never stopping. Until I look at him.
He’s lying there on the hospital bed. No color in his skin. Eyes glassy as diamonds. I struggle to hold in my tears.
So I kneel next to his bed, resting my hands on his, I tell him in a quiet voice that I love him, that I’ll do my best to be just like him.
I know he can hear me. I know it. But he doesn’t speak. And my heart breaks. But I can’t show it. For about an hour, I just kneel there, my hand on his hand, staring at his glassy eyes.
From behind me, I hear my mom say, “Someone’s here to pick you up. You need a break. You’ve spent the last three months in the hospital with him.”
So I lean over, kiss him on the cheek, say softly again, “I love you, Papa.”
And I turn and leave.
***

Walking down the hallway, I think of all the stuff he’s taught me.
How to be a man – to always open the door for a woman, how to sharpen a knife, how to use a chainsaw, how to treat my mom.
How to fish- we spent days going to the pond, dragging our little boat into the water, and sitting there for hours, catching anywhere from twenty to a hundred fish.
Spending time with him, was the perfect bonding experience.
I get to the front door of the hospice house, memories running through my mind
And I see my dad’s black Ford Ranger
I get in, and we start to drive off, then the waterworks hit me. All my dad says is, “Why the hell are you crying?” I looked at him like he’s stupid and say, “Why wouldn’t I cry? My papa’s dying.”
For some reason, he’s always so insensitive. So I put my head on the passenger window and continue to cry.
He just keeps driving. Doesn’t say another word.
We get to my dad’s house about 5 p.m.
And I just lie down by the phone waiting to hear good news from my mom. Lie there for hours.
And not once does my dad come to check on me.
I think over and over – Papa’s got to get better.
It’s about ten thirty when the phone rings.
I slowly answer, but I don’t say hello. No, the first words out of my mouth are, “How is he?”
And my mom says, “He’s gone.”
And at that very moment, I make myself a promise. A promise to be a fun loving, generous, hardworking man.
Just like my papa.