“I sat in the chair at the foot of his bed and watched him. He struggled to open his eyes, but managed to lift his lids a little bit. I didn’t see the whites of his eyes, just his pupils looking straight at me. His eyes looked sad and at the time I thought it was because of his frustration after weeks of hospice care. He looked directly at me and I don’t think it was accidental. The only way I can describe it is that his eyes seemed to express apprehension and relief at the same time. He could not speak. He was saying goodbye. I know that now. I wish I had at the time.” – Excerpt from my journal. September 9, 2007.

Time of death, 6 p.m. on a Sunday evening. I had left the hospice room earlier that day just after lunch. Around 5:45 p.m., my sister called. “You better get up here.” I heard the fear in her voice. Minutes later, before I had time to tie my shoes, she called again. “You don’t have to hurry” was all she needed to say. The official pronouncement would come later when my cousin, his doctor, gathered at the bedside with many other family members and friends.

Dad was gone.

The drive to the hospital with my wife and youngest son is something I don’t recall in detail. I know it was quiet, at least it was for me. My mind was in room 516 of Saline Memorial Hospital. As we stepped off the elevator and rounded the corner, we could see the hallway filled with loved ones and relatives.

“I entered the room. Mom and Sis were there. I walked to the bed and touched Dad’s left shoulder. It was still warm. I asked the nurse to remove the oxygen mask as I reached to turn off the flow. I moved around to the other side and sat back in the chair next to him. His head was turned toward me. I sat there looking at him. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing. I could see he was dead, but I didn’t want to believe what my senses were telling me. I stared at his face. I missed him already.”

As I sat there, Mom and Sis told me of his last moments. Mom was crying. Sis talked the most. Mom said she had asked Dad if he was ok. His response was, “I’m dying. I love you.” Sis said they spoke the 23rd Psalm out loud. Mom looked at Dad, held his hand, and told him it was ok to go. She did the same thing at her mother’s side some six years earlier. I’m told it was a peaceful passing, something for which we had prayed.

“As I look at Dad, I notice his right eye is partially open. I see the same pupil from earlier in the day. I gently put my finger to his eyelid and ease it down. I felt the tears start to build. Mom stepped closer and put her hand on my back. She was talking about how peaceful he looked. She was right. No more struggles. No more pain. No more wait. He had crossed over.”

“Just before leaving the hospital, a man from the funeral home came up to get Dad. He was very nice. We set a time for 9 a.m. the next day to meet and finalize plans. He also said, ‘We will need clothing for him so bring it with you to the meeting.’ Hearing him say this and seeing the stretcher with the green velvet cover hits me like a 2 by 4 and the reality of the circumstances rushes back. My father has died and while I go downstairs his body will be shuttled through the hospital hallways and then off to the funeral home.”

His service followed three days later. I spoke at the funeral and did my best to share what it was like growing up the son of such an incredible man. Burial followed at Ebenezer Cemetery in Tull, Arkansas.

“When the ceremony was over at the cemetery, I talked to Uncle Paul. He was close to tears. He shook my hand and said, ‘I’m going to tell you what your dad told me when we buried my dad – He was a good man.’ I thanked Uncle Paul and told him I agreed.”

I keep it all in that journal and have not shared the content with many people. Except for today. Perhaps in the future, more will will be shared, but that is beyond the scope of this particular day.

As the years have passed, I notice my mind move to that moment of time in 2007. What I have also noticed is a change in my perspective. As I grow older and get closer to my father’s age at his death, I begin to feel movement from that chair at the side of his bed in room 516 to his spot looking back at it. I gain an understanding of what he may have been thinking as he looked at his son, then 49 years of age, and how fast the time had passed from being on the Little League field when I was a kid, teaching me the game he loved.

The best I can always do is – remember.