And We Will Always Be Together

Daddy’s hands are very handsome. I’ve never noticed that before. Strong, with long thick fingers that have proven to be too large to operate a smartphone. The hands of a humble worker that have neither shied away from effort nor taken on more than what is feasible. Always aware of their limitation.

My hand fits perfectly inside his. If he closed it, mine would be completely hidden, completely protected inside.
 They are still warm but display no other sign of life. I figure, as long as his temperature matches mine, we still have some time.

I bring down the railing of the hospital bed and climb in. These beds are not meant for double occupancy but I don’t mind being cramped. I want to be close. I would climb into his pocket, if his boxers-briefs had any. I take his arm, drape it across my waist, and hold his hand tight against the small of my back. I place my other hand on his heart. His feeble heartbeats send waves of what feels like electric current through my arm.

The day outside the window is trying to impress us with sun and blue skies. In contrast with the bright sunlight, Daddy’s face looks so pale, almost see-through. I pull down the blinds, I don’t want to see that clearly, not yet.

Grief, must be the expression of love we feel more intensely. Felt in every breath, every cell.
 It fills your mind with memories you’d forgotten you had, while simultaneously embedding you in a cloud of emptiness.

I have had a year to prepare. A year of diagnosis, hospital visits, hope, and despair. But just like nothing, not even nine months of gestation, can prepare you for becoming a first-time parent, nothing can prepare you for this assault of intense love.

Yesterday we covered the practicalities of his imminent death. We went through all his many papers and folders. I have been given pins, codes and passwords, and understand for the first time the weight of keeping one’s life neatly organized. It’s a humble gesture in life, but one that shows up in death as the greatest service you can give those who survive you. Daddy’s affairs are in impeccable order, he has even earmarked the bills that need to be paid soon.
That silent no-need-to-thank-me thoughtfulness is his trademark.

“No Daddy! I can do it by myself, I’m not stupid!”


“But wait a second sweetheart, I’m not doing it for you, I’m just preparing it”


We always played out this little charade when we went fishing. Dad knew I was squirmish about threading the worm on the hook, and although I announced every time that I of course could do it by myself, he knew I wasn’t ready quite yet. He also knew that his little 5-year-old hated losing face, so he would always hook the first part of the worm, hand it to me, then look away. This way I could pretend to thread the rest of it before quickly throwing it into the ocean.


“There you go sweetie, well done! I bet the fish are really hungry and will bite soon, and then how about we head for the island and grill them straight over an open fire, yes!?”


“Oh yes, Daddy! And I light the fire, right, with the matchstick?!”


“Of course you can, as long as you remember what we talked about, to hold steady even though the first whoosh is a bit sudden.”


“I will daddy, I promise!!”


We had taken the big boat today, the old wooden one that I sometimes got to steer. We had driven her straight to our favorite fishing spot, a narrow sound between two little islands where the reeds grew both tall and deep, which made it a perfect spot for catching Pike.

“Daddy, what do you think happens when we die?”
 He was quiet for a bit. Threw another line, into the reeds.

“Hmm, well I think it just ends, like the day. It gets dark...and then it’s over.”


“Like going to sleep?”


“...Yeah, something like that, but I don’t know, nobody does, not really, even if they say they do.”

I loved that, how he always treated me like an adult, like I was mature enough to understand. That he didn’t pretend to know more than he did or lie to me like other grown-ups did.


“But you are never going to die Daddy, never! You are going to live as long as I do!”

“Well, wouldn’t that be something! So if you live to a hundred, I have to live to...a hundred and thirty-five! Oh no, that is too long.”

“No it’s not! We will always be together! Promise!!”


Daddy laughs, picks me up, and starts tickling me until I scream with laughter, and as always when it’s just him and me, the world is perfect.

If there was no time and all things/occurrences were happening simultaneously, and we would know with absolute certainty that this is so, would that be the end of grief? Would knowing that all that ever was and ever will be is just happening in a perpetual now, erase all missing?

The sun is setting as Daddy’s breath becomes feeble. I close my eyes, and for a moment climb out of the fabric of time to glimpse what is to come.
 I see papers, phone calls...the exhausting administrative aftermath of death.
 I feel the weight of the responsibility I promised him I’d shoulder. Taking care of Mom, the very fragile parent that is left.

I hear my sighs as I clean out his stuff, which will take more time than expected because I will break into tears every time I smell his clothes...
I taste the tears through my smile when I scatter his ashes across the little sound where we used to fish.
 And part of me will sink to the bottom with him, and part of him will stay with me.

And we will always be together.

I promise.