Dad’s skin felt cold, so I wrapped his quilt–and my arms–around him. I held him close, whispering to him that I had always loved him and would love him forever and always. The more I talked, the calmer his breathing became. I know he heard me, felt me, and smelled me, even though he did not show any sign of recognition or awareness.
At 2:30 in the morning, Dad took his final breath. He looked peaceful, as if he had fallen into a deep sleep. The moon, shining through the slats of the room’s blind, bathed him in its soft light.
It was 2:30 in the morning, and the night had taken my beloved dad from me. I did not move; I had nowhere to go. I lay next to my dad, letting the haunting darkness of the night consume me.