Those last few weeks with my father were a gift. Those precious stolen hours between working shifts and being home for my children. And I’d drive to the hospital once or twice a day, often on no sleep. I’d wrestle his hospital wheelchair and an oxygen canister down to the garden, sip coffee and talk with him. He’d always loved to be outside.
I’d cry for how I’d been so distant, before I knew he’d gotten sick. He’d forgive me time and again.
One morning I got in from a twelve hour shift and tried to sleep. Two hours later, still wide awake, I gave up and went to see him. Now, with him was the only place I could find peace. I curled up, uncomfortable, in the chair by his bed and told him lies about all the places we’d go when we got him home. He smiled before he closed his eyes. It was the last time he was conscious.
Those weeks and hours beside him broke me and healed me all at the same time. For every honest moment, for every truthful conversation. For chance to tell him I forgive you too. I was content just to sit by his side and grateful for every second.
After years of hurt, it might have been complicated. But in the end it was simple.
Linking up over at Kate Motaung’s page for for Five Minute Friday.