Through the door

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

It couldn’t be put off any longer. The book had provided a good distraction for her mind; the words were meaningless, had left no impression, but had shielded her heart, been a wall against her grief and fear. In the end she realized she wasn’t brave enough to face death. Her father had faced it alone without the comfort of her presence or quiet words. She ran away and she knew it.

But now it was time to face the inevitable. Beyond the door her father lay dead on his bed; in the room he had shared with her mother for half a century, but now shared with silence. Once through the door, her first impression on seeing his still cold form for the first time was less grief than disgust. A black film of dried blood ringed his mouth. The dimness on his eyes and the cold fishy pallor of his skin sent a rush of ice water through her gut.

She stood in the doorway looking on the body; searching inward she found only an emptiness and shadow. Why didn’t it hurt? Was she a terrible daughter for not melting into a heap of oozing grief and misery?

What to do? She shook off the hesitancy and moved into the room. A list of tasks took over; the next line of defense. The doctor would have to be called. And the funeral home. And certainly Dan. Her brother would never show for the funeral, but he could at least send flowers.

I’ll clean him up first, she thought taking the washcloth from the bowl on the side table. Most recently it had been used to dampen the old man’s lips as his struggles mounted. Now it would erase the last evidence of life.

As she moved through the task, she lifted his hand in order to arrange him neatly, but stopped, a sudden burst of emotion welling up. It brought her to her knees, knocking the breath from her chest in a gasp and sob. She had been so afraid, now the shame of it added another layer to her emotion.

“Oh, daddy”, she moaned and gasped and moaned and murmured unintelligibly. She clutched at the hand, sobbed into it, kissing the cold tender palm.

Only now after he was gone could she find the courage to say all the things she wanted to say, to hold his hand as a daughter, as he had held hers so often a lifetime ago. But when it came her turn to hold his, she had run away and hid. She poured herself onto that palm wishing the warmth of life would return.

Later, she closed the palm around a kiss, placed it on the bed, and finally, decided to walk through the door. She had things to do. But she paused for a last look at the form that had once been her father. Fresh grief tried to suffocate her, but it was no longer for her loss, but for herself. Was there an empty room waiting for her? Who will hold my hand? At the end?