Letting go, for my father, meant arriving back to one of the few places he had vacationed over the last few years, the home of one his closest friends. He settled into a familiar, comfortable chair, the one that was upholstered green and white with a soft, low saddle. It was well used, and its springs sunk deep.
On the second night of his stay, Dad called my cell phone. He rarely did that. I was in the middle of my finals week of the spring semester of my first year at graduate school studying architecture. I was running between class and dinner, but I answered.
“Hey, are you having fun?” I said, in denial of the truth that he was dying. “I’ll see you after my final, when you get back.”
“I love you, Michael,” he replied weakly. “I am proud of you.”
Then my phone’s battery died before I could respond, and I had to run home to charge it. But he never answered when I called back. By the next day, he was gone.
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