Closer

When we walked into the hospice that bright, blue September day we knew we would walk out changed.  When we walked down the long, carpeted halls we stole unsure glances into other rooms while we looked for his.  We did not want to be here, but we did not want to be anywhere else.

With a deep breath we entered his room anxious about how he might look.  But our eyes fell on Aunt Lesly.  This was the first time we had seen her in 17 years.  Why does death do that?  Why does death bring to life what we had long left buried?

Our next concern was Mom.  She stood as we approached and hugged us hard.  She cradled her healing arm, a new baby to which to tend.  She had already delivered her father to this place, carrying him his final weeks. Now, her true children were with her.  We felt sure she was ready.

Dad was there, too, of course.  He had been right by Mom, right by us, for as long as we could remember.  Our barometer by which to gauge life's required events.  

Finally, our eyes and our hearts settled on Papa.  It had been nearly a week since we had seen him.  He had been in a hospital gown then and so he remained.  It fit him loosely, but we knew he no longer cared how he looked.  We believed that he still cared dearly about who was near.

So, we sat and we waited.

The nurses came in from time to time.  They always brought relief.  They might have been angels.  Once, they shifted Papa slightly to the side.  That's often all we need to get going, really.  After they left, he stopped.  The rattle had been released.  Everyone in the room stood, moved by the presence of absence. 

We truly knew Papa had left when Dad looked at his watch.  Daddy always knows the time, the weather, the score.  We expected him to drop his arm to look at the digits on his wrist.  We did not expect him to place his strong, tan, daddy hand on Papa's pale forehead and bestow a kiss. 

We had never been there before when someone had died.  It was finished.  Our lives minus one had begun.  We held each other.  We even hugged Aunt Lesly.  We cried.

Walking out into the crisp, cleansing September evening we knew we were closer.  We knew we were closer to each other.  We also knew we were closer to doing this again. 

We are seven years apart and therefore very different.  We are from the same parents and therefore very similar.  We are siblings.  We are sisters.  We will change, but that never will.  We have, but that has not.  We live in different houses now, but we still grow up together.