This one is for me. Because, tomorrow is BK day, our goodby day. And because, for some reason I keep living Bill’s last day, I want to keep it here until I’m not here to keep it.
It was our goodby day. Though we had,
over the weeks, left nothing unsaid. “Pack
slowly and move, Kath.” “I’m so so sorry for grumping as you were growing weak,
Babe. I’m so sorry.” “Remarriage is for
company, right? Not for love, right?”
“Hug my dad when you get there; hug my brother too.” “Please keep my picture
up.” Though we talked it all out, we hadn’t said goodby.
Our goodby day had arrived.
Knowing Bill would soon be leaving, our sons came home. My parents at our side. Our sisters were on hand. Our hospice family stood nearby.
The morning broke with sun and singing. We held a small worship service in our bedroom, reciting scripture, singing favorites. Bill mouthed the words; I put a melody to them. Bill lifted his bone-thin hand in praise; I sustained it.
Bill requested a cheeseburger.
And then he mantled our boys with profound directives: “Jordan, make sure you get Mom a AAA roadside assistance. Jeffrey, take the sound system wiring through the attic.”
These are words on which to ponder and model our lives.
Entrusting his boys to these burdens, he closed his eyes and held my hand with waning strength. I held his with strengthening strength. I sang in his ear, I brushed his forehead, I cheeked his cheek, and I didn’t let go.
“Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, Babe.”
Squeeze
“I love you.”
Squeeze
“Goodby, Babe. I’ll see you before long.”
Squeeze
“Goodby.”
…
“Babe? Goodby.”
…
My mom noticed first. A deep breath, a short breath, no breath.
I wept over this man. I held him. I kissed him. I loved him. I didn’t let go of his hand.
And then I let go.
The truck came. The hospice folks and
medical equipment left.
The boys held me. We held each other. They walked me back into our bedroom.
Empty. Gone. Over. Finished.
Goodby Bill. YMF. (You’re my fave.) I’ll always love you.
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