Another Beautiful Day

When I set off in my car this morning, U-2's Beautiful Day was playing on the radio. Fitting. And beautiful it is, to the extent that muggy with a threat of thunderstorms can be beautiful, which, to those of us who have been freezing our asses off all spring, it can.

It was a beautiful day in Chicago thirteen years ago when I flew back from New York City in the wee hours of the morning, having just paid my final visit to my dying father. The sky was sapphire blue, with not a cloud in sight, and the warm, soothing temperatures belied the bitter chill that ran through my body as I tried, rather unsuccessfully, to convince myself I would see my father alive again.

When two of my father's best buddies died this past year, I took solace in the notion they would all be together "up there," playing golf, perhaps, certainly kibbitzing to their hearts' content. And, three days ago, when I helped send Leo up, I took solace in the notion that my dad and Leo would finally be able to meet, maybe even share a nosh and then a good nap. Two of the kindest souls I've ever known. They would hit it off.

Both Leo and my dad waited not only until they were ready to die, but until I was ready to let them go. I won't bore anyone again with the tale of Leo's final tail wag, his way of winking at me to let me know it was okay. When I left my dad on the morning of May 11th, 1998, he lay peacefully in his bed, and offered up what would be, for me, his final smile. I arrived home, played with my youngest daughter (then just shy of two years old), took my older children out of school for lunch, went for a run, dismissed the babysitter, and sat down to call my parents.

It was as if my father had waited for my call, not so much so I could talk to him one last time but more so he could be sure I was okay. He had given me some time to regroup, to get my ducks in a row (okay, my ducks have never been in a row), and hung on until I called. He passed away while I was on the phone, my mother at his side, me telling him I loved him in his ear. He knew I would have regretted not being there at the end, and so he waited.

When I was growing up, my father would walk in the door every evening at six o'clock, without fail. I would always run to him, asking him what presents he had brought for me. It was a running joke; usually, he was empty handed, but his arrival was the only present I needed. On the day he died, he waited for me, and that was the best gift of all.