On the day my father died, I remember details:
Crisp notes from an upright bass on Cadboro Bay Beach at an Easter sunrise service
The angular chain link fence atop the cliff in Phyllis Park, separating those on land from the vast ocean below and distant snowy cliffs
Standing by the front window at 10:30 am, taking a call from Sharon the hospice nurse telling me to take the next ferry
Long hugs from my daughters; a kiss from my wife
Sleeping on the 1 pm ferry until car alarms were set off on Deck 4
The slight smile of the barista in Tsawwassen handing me a chicken pesto panini to go
The stark white of Mt Baker, majestic in the afternoon sun while driving the 99
Zipping through a crowded customs in the Nexus lane: “Do you have anything to declare?” No.
Turning at Joe’s Garden in south Bellingham, a farmland holdout on a street now full of bland apartment blocks
Changing my shirt from electric blue to black in the parking lot before going into the Hospice House
Room 10.
My Dad’s laboured breathing like sleep apnea
Holding his warm hand and praying that he would enter the light of eternity
Sitting back down
The sound of no breathing
“He’s Not Breathing Any More!”
Starting to cry
Dad’s crooked teeth jutting out, colourless lips, open mouth
Touching his hand again and it was colder
Not paging the nurse
Holding Mom and crying
Touching his hand again and it was colder
The nurse coming in with a stethoscope, nodding once
Crying more
Calling family
Removing the Seiko wristwatch that had fallen almost up to his elbow, facing inside like he always wore it.
He wouldn’t need time
Back home, cooking chicken and rice for dinner
A knock on the door from a stranger, a caregiver with a thick Slavic accent who had come for her 8 pm shift. “What a gift to die today of all days, to die on Easter.”
He is risen.
He is risen.
He is risen indeed.
