Photo Credit: © Can Stock Photo / sadakko
The crowd had long since departed, and June sat alone at the corner of the eight-foot table covered in red plastic. The posters the grandkids made, which included the most memorable shots of Papa, were still propped up on easels by the door: Papa pitching baseballs, Papa teaching Alicia how to drive, Papa surprising Grandma on her birthday with a new car, Papa simply being a great guy. June choked up again, probably for the hundredth time in the last three days.
He passed quietly in his sleep. She had rolled over and called his name in the darkness, a form of communication they had used for decades. He always answered, always ready to give her the comfort and security he provided from their first date. But this time he didn’t answer, and when she put her hand on his skin, she found he was cold. And he was never cold. Instead of jumping from the bed, she simply turned the light on. Lying by his side for the last time, she felt a sense of calm.
“So this is how it ends, huh, buddy? We always talked about this day, and here it is,” she whispered. She lay a moment longer by him, her hand on his chest. “Oh, Papa—where do you think you’re going, huh? You’re gonna leave this big family to little, old me? I’m not strong like you … I’m not … not ... nn …”