Visitation time for ICU patients came and I tucked my childhood memory out of my mind and followed my mother and sister into Daddy’s cubicle. “Where have you all been?” he asked. Those were the last words I heard him say. The next day Mother left to get her hair done. So she could escape? Or so she would look nice for the funeral? Who knew? On day three the doctor said my father’s kidneys were failing. “We can move him out of ICU so you can be with him.” My mother shook her head no. He died alone. It happened that night. I went in to see him for the last time. I don’t know where Mother was but I know she wasn’t with me when I whispered my goodbye. My sister had gone home to rest. I called and told her he was gone and then I waited in the hallway for her to appear. When she rounded the corner and walked toward me, I watched her take her first steps on the bridge I had already crossed. Together we would grieve, and together we would help our mother maneuver the rocky road she would have to travel without our dad. That year, 1987, on the day of Yom Kippur, my sister and I said Yizkor for the first time. Afterward, we visited our father’s grave. In accordance with Jewish custom, we each left a rock on top of the stone to show that we had been there and that, for us, his memory was a blessing.
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