Beautifully Blue.

I found myself thinking about my father today. Sometimes it catches me, triggered by some subtle memory or thought and I find myself really missing him all over again. And then tomorrow most likely I will not think of him at all.

I am back in his room in the hospital sitting crosslegged by his bed. One hand holding the book I am reading, the other holding his hand. I hear him telling me that he is dying and I know he is frightened. I don't know what to say and I know it is true. I watch him accept a cup of coffee from a nurse and slowly sip it, smiling his thanks. And then he is gone. The cup set down, almost deliberately, before falling back against the pillows, his hand to his chest. Falling away from me as I am pushed from the room with my hand over my mouth.

Sometimes I wish I had refused to leave the room. Instead I paced the corridor waiting for my mother.

He never regained consciousness and died a few hours later.

Watching him die is the hardest thing I have ever done.
It is not how you imagine it to be.
At all.