Photograpgh

I have a photo.

I took two days before Dad died.

I've never shown anyone, not even Phil, this photo.

Dad primarily slept at this point.

I'd check on him every 15 minutes. Lean against the doorframe and watch him.

I'd wonder what he's dreaming about.

At that moment, there was calm.

Quiet.

I'd seen photos of people holding their loved one's hand while they transitioned, but the reality was the pain Dad endured when touched didn't allow for that.

I took the photo from the door as I didn't want to disturb him.

He looked tiny in that bed, like a child nestled into his favored blanket.

Dad always sensed when I was near. His eyes opened a bit, and he gave me a soft smile. I walked over to him, leaned down, and kissed his head.

"I love you."

With an exhale. "I love you." His voice was weak.

Dad couldn't speak very well, but he always managed to get his I love you out.

"You rest, okay."

He smiled once more and closed his eyes.

That photo is the last one I took of Dad.

I remember that string of minutes every time I look at it.

Those moments, especially toward the end, are sewn into my heart.

Moments he wasn't in pain (thank goodness for Morphine).

Moments he was present.

Moments we knew he'd leave this world soon.

And they were ours.

Dad and Daughter.

Fleeting but ours.

I am not going to share the photo; it's sacred to me, and I am not ready to do so. I may never be, and that's okay. Some things can remain private.

July 7 is a year, and I've learned much without my Dad physically present. The main one is that I'm still standing. What I experienced caring for my terminally ill Dad is beyond life-altering.

It's indescribable.

And I'd do it again because no one should walk that path alone.

Over these past several months, I've allowed grief to wrap her arms around me and pass over the Kleenex while I look through photos and listen to Dad’s music.

This griefy girl is here to stay, and I welcome her unapologetically.