My dad was lying on the hospital bed just staring at me. I knew he wanted to say something, but he was unable to speak. Then he reached out his right hand, which was covered in tubes, and gripped my hand with a strong hold.
Every word I knew he wanted to say was expressed through his feeble fingers. My eyes began to moisten, as if a faucet had been turned on. We held hands for at least three minutes. My dad had a lot to say, and I knew that “I love you” was somewhere in his grip. I also felt he was comforting me–telling me that everything was all right, that I am still his little boy, that it’s okay to let the tears fall.
Bronx, New York