I’m at his bedside, an onlooker and a participant. Day melds into night into day into night as time loses definition. Hours are counted by breaths, weaker, weaker, but still he lingers between worlds. He’s back in the Army, Germany, World War II. He stretches out his arm to an unseen stranger, straining, reaching, “Grab hold, I’ll get you up!” I gasp, hold my breath spellbound as he pulls some soldier from long past to safety. The sting of tears barely subsides before the raspy, ravaged voice cries out again, “He’s going up the hill!”
“Who?” I ask wondering what his dream state will offer up.
“Robert,” he says without hesitation, then, “Oh wait. They’re calling him back.”
For hours it’s like this as he revisits his life, sometimes familiar scenes, sometimes places only he has been. “1969,” he says with the ring of authority. “1969 was a good year for blackberries.”
Dying. My dad is dying and I get to be here to experience this once-in-a-lifetime event as he leaves his out-worn body, shedding the earth-bound shell. In death as in life he sets the example, fearless, patient, kind. I adore him, always have. He’s the best man I’ve ever known, my rock, my hero…my dad.
writing for self-discovery 
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