Dear You,

You who rules the Universe, Cosmos, train schedules, entrances / exits to this 3-D world.

You.

The time keeper, Umpire, The Guardian.

6:54 p.m. Tuesday. 2009. You came and stamped his ticket, collected my dad's boarding pass. No surprise. His breathing had entered the "death rattle" stage and he had asked for morphine. You were clearly on the way.

Wrapped hands, hospice workers (2), nurse, brothers, mom and me. "Our father," prayer recited while the nurse used a stethoscope to check his breathing. 2 words: "He's gone."

But was he ever here?

Diligently my mother allotted us all a few minutes alone with our now dead father. For what? The cold bedroom, the machines still clicking, tracking O2 and heart rate levels, still spitting out information.

"What a disappointment, a train wreck of a father you were, you are," I scream to the indiscriminate, unaffected air.

Death isn't a pardon. It isn't a restitution, "get out of jail free" card. No. Somber - yes. Oddly, surprisingly painful and liberating - yes.

My wounds remain whilst he is free to roam the other dimensions unencumbered of his total failure as a loving, fair father.

But I feel gratitude. Not for his entrance to this meek world, but gratitude to the gift of survival, presence, the fragile and surprising sweet time YOU gifted us lo those last 6 weeks.

Death is mighty. It takes no prisoners. It is a cloaked figure with many heads.

I know there is a kind of life beyond here.

I have no fear of death for life is wicked, burdensome, and only rarely bright w/ carnival lights and sticky sweet candy.

Perhaps that's why we carry on.

Amy Lloyd

11/6/2018