The last time I saw my father was through our living room window.
He was sitting in his favorite La-Z-Boy. I pounded on the screen with my fist, but he paid no attention.
“I love you. I love you,” I said.
Finally, he looked in my direction and muttered something that I couldn’t understand. Satisfied, I walked toward the end of our driveway, where a car was waiting for me. I was leaving for the weekend to stay with my best friend and would be back on a Sunday, November 5.
When I returned home two days later, I was led to my parent’s bedroom, where my uncle and mom were waiting. Your dad got sick, they told me. We took him to a hospital. There was a little bit of a pause. “And he just … died.” Continue reading