The phone rings at 10, twenty-third of June.
“His blood pressure’s dropping. Come see him soon.”
I take a deep breath and try not to cry.
I look up to the sky and ask God, “Why?”
I shut the door and head to the hospice.
My thoughts run wild, unfiltered in my mind:
“No therapy worked, drug of any kind…
They were all useless; he is still dying.
What was the point of trying anything?
How does it feel to watch your father die?”
I close my eyes and start praying to God.
I know it’s too late but it’s all I’ve got.
But it’s no use praying for you to stay.
It isn’t what you wanted anyway.
So I ask God to take you to heaven.
I open my eyes and look at your face.
I think about how we got to this place.
You start to moan and we turn to listen.
Every sound, beyond our comprehension.
Is there something you want to say to us?
“It’s ok, Dad. We know. We love you too.
Though you can’t say it, we know it is true.
God’s waiting for you, where angels will bow!
You can go peacefully to heaven now!
Though we’ll miss you, we’ll see you again soon!”