Dad died this week.
In our last exchange, he texted me a picture of the view from his bed at Kavanaugh House hospice. Des Moines’ fiery autumn woods served as the backdrop for the last day of his life, visiting with friends and family and watching one last game of football.
When his message came through, I was preparing dinner across the ocean. Peace washed over me. On the minimalist daybed under the picture window, his clothes laid folded and stacked, baseball cap posed on top of the tidy pile. A striped throw pillow rested against one end of the daybed. He was surrounded by beauty and order.
Dad captioned the photo, “New pic. Another tomorrow.” I’m still chewing on the delicious ambiguity of his words. Did he intend to send a picture the following day? Was he stating an intention to go on living?
Of course, Dad knew his time was short. He had faced health struggles for many years and had given much thought to his relationships and his legacy. Blessedly, his last day brought optimism and lightness. Lying in bed, perhaps in his final solitary moments, he noted the gentle brilliance of the scene and snapped a picture. Then, he thought to share it with me.
As I begin to grieve this loss from afar, my father’s message buoys me. His missive is my poetic balm in the emptiness I feel. I return to it incessantly and hold it at my heart center. In those trying weeks leading to his death, my heroic siblings comforted him and advocated for him. They secured a beautiful space in which he felt safe to finally let go. He peacefully moved on to another tomorrow.
Obituary for Bernard Joseph Connolly, Jr.