Pop

It’s Father’s Day, and I’m thinking about my dad – not in the usual sense of remembered events or experiences from childhood, but rather our last visit.

It was a Sunday in the spring of 1991.  I woke earlier than usual and decided to make a quick trip to the nursing home where Pop had recently relocated.  It was in a rural location, only ten minutes away, so I could visit with him for half and hour or so and still return in time for Sunday School and church with my family.  This decision was atypical, however, since I usually visited him on weekday evenings.

When I entered his quiet room, he lay still in the bed – a marble statue with flyaway white hair.  His eyes seemed unusually clear and bright, however.  He was obviously glad to see me, but in typical fashion had little to say.  Instead, he perched his hand on the top of the tube-like side railing of his bed, inviting me to hold it.

This was a first.  He had never been an emotionally expressive sort, and I didn’t remember him ever initiating such a gesture - EVER.  I slipped my warm hand into his cool one, and was surprised at how naturally and easily they fit. 

Every once in a while he opened his eyes and looked up as if to make sure the rest of me was still connected to my hand.  Otherwise, we just held hands. The mechanical clock on the wall ticked along until finally it was time for me to leave.

“I’ve got to go, Pop.  I’ll be back Tuesday, okay?”

He turned his head sideways and looked at me with a softer version of the old intense furrowed-brow-look I knew so well.  He tightened his grip just slightly, but enough for me to notice, then nodded his head before turning it back to its original position to stare at the ceiling.  Our fingers released.  I placed his limp hand on his chest, and began walking toward the door.  When I was almost there, he called out.

“Little Sis!”  This was what he called me when I was a little girl.  His voice sounded strong – as if he were a younger man again, calling to his little daughter.

I stopped with my hand on the knob. “Yes?”

He was looking my way again. “Be good, and be careful.”  Although a man of few words, he’d said this when I’d gone out on dates as a teenager, or when I’d left home for college.  It was comfortable for him to say and for me to hear – a link to an earlier time that was specific to the two of us.

“Ok, Pop.”

As I stepped out into the hallway, something was different. I knew I’d just had a one-of-a-kind encounter.

The day progressed as usual with Sunday School, church, lunch, and the Sunday afternoon naps and activities typical to our four children.  Toward evening the phone rang.  It was a woman from the nursing home.  I was playing in the front yard with the kids when my husband came out to tell me the news.  Pop had just died.

Whenever I think of him now, I remember our last visit with its unusual clarity, openness, and candid intimacy…..our final good-bye.