Whispered Confession: Dad’s Last Day
I see my dad in front of me, the hospital bed envelops his body, crisp white linens tucked up to his chest, his arms out to his sides, resting on the sheets, palms up. Eyes closed, his mouth shaping an unnatural “O” around the tube pushing air into his lungs. The quietness of the room, the stillness, allowed me entrance, gave way to my steps as I approached Dad. I extend my left hand and place it under his right hand, folding my fingers over his, pressing gently. I scoot closer. Leaning in, I cup the side of Dad’s face with my left hand and pat back the soft grays of his temples with my right, and kiss him softly on his forehead, and once more.
“I love you, Dad,” I hear myself say. And it doesn’t sound strange, this whispered confession. This is no secret, I’m thinking, still caressing Dad’s face, smiling this time and saying, “Dad, it’s me . Your number three!” and I hear some laughter from the other family members in the room. It doesn’t wake or rouse him, though. Dad doesn’t suddenly sense my presence and squeeze my hand, nor does he open his eyes. I sit down next to Aunt Kathy, and we find ourselves staring into Dad’s face as if it has all the answers we’ve ever needed.
The priest comes and says his blessings, asks us to pray for Rosendo “Roy” Mauricio, and help him find his way home. Home, he says. The attending physician enters the room, adjusts the…
