I haven’t been near a computer for a couple of days. Also haven’t had much sleep. I’m typing this on my Droid.
I’m sitting in a hospital room right now, next to my dad. He’s sedated with morphine, but sometimes drifts up to consciousness that can range from muzzy to vivid. He’s refused food and water since several days before I got here, so he’s no longer able to talk.
“I love you, Old Man. I was so lucky to have you in my life. Lucky to live in a world that had you in it. I’m here with you. I’m going to be right here with you for as long as you need me.”
These are some of the things I tell him, and his eyes tell me he hears and understands me.
“He’s so lucky to have a friend like you,” say the nurses. I wonder if this is something they say to everybody, but even so it brings me to tears. I need to hear it.
I helped move some of his things today, and came across treasure — the spurs he wore on mountain trails through decades of wilderness cowboy work. I want them with an almost physical ache.
Night is falling outside. I sit in a quiet dim room and think about the sound of breathing, and the light shared between people who love.
The man was sunlight in my life for some of my best years. I’ll get the spurs, yes, but they will be the least of what I inherit.
Soon, now, say the doctors.