His smile told me he knew the truth. "I don't know how to make it all right. I don't know how to make it easier other than to tell you that I don't want you to hurt or suffer. Don't mourn me; celebrate me. Don't think of me with sadness, think of me with joy."
I swallowed once, then again, but nothing could stop the feeling that he was saying goodbye. "I promise."
"There's so much I want to tell you and not enough time. I don't know where to start." His eyes roamed my face. "Your sisters will look to you for everything, but don't let that weigh on you. Just let them breathe. Guide them. You all know what to do … my job was easy, raising you all." His gray eyes were just like mine, but his were filled with urgency and intention as he spoke. "I want you to know that I am proud of you, so proud. Your mother would have been too, and you've honored her memory with your life, with your heart, sacrificing yourself and what you want for the greater good. You are everything we hoped for, everything we imagined when we held you for the first time."
I squeezed his hand, unable to speak, so he continued, taking a deep breath.
"The day she died, when she called …"
"Dad …"
"No, it's okay. You need to know. I want you to know." He drew another breath. "It was chaos, people yelling and screaming, the sound of their footfalls as they ran down the stairs. But I could hear her smiling, smiling and crying when I answered, relieved to have reached me, I think. We both knew … we knew. And she told me goodbye. She told me … she asked me not to forget her, but told me not to hold on. She told me to let her go. I never understood why she said it, until now. I cursed her name for asking the impossible of me, to let her go, and I never did. But now where I sit where she sat, I wish I had. Not for me. For her."
My breath hitched, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.
"I need you to let me go, son."
"I …" Can't. Never. Won't.
"It sounds impossible, but this is what I'm asking of you. I can't leave this world without knowing you'll try."
I nodded, unable to deny him anything. "I'll try."
"Life is short, so short, so precious, every minute, every day. Don't let the people you love, the people who make you happy, the people who bring you joy — don't let them go. Hang on to them, even when it hurts. When it seems impossible. Hold on to the things that breathe life into you. Listen to your soul and honor what it tells you. Live. Fight for what you love. Because one day, you'll be where I am, and in that moment I want you to look back gladly, with no regrets."
"Elliot," I whispered.
He nodded. "You've been in the dark for so long, from the moment you lost her. But she's right here, right now, and she loves you. If you don't love her anymore, then let her go too, right along with me. But if you do, hold on to her. You don't know how long you'll have the chance."
He looked down at our hands. "All I want for you and your sisters is your happiness. I want your dreams and your hopes, and I'd do anything to give them to you. But I'm out of time, so I can only tell you my wishes so you can remember them, so you can hear them when I'm gone. Live and live well." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry to put this on you, but I can feel it." His voice dropped. "I feel it pressing on me, feel the time pass."
"Don't say that, Dad. There's still time."
"I know," he said with a sad smile, tinged with placation. "We'll have a little bit longer. Italy tonight?"
"Italy tonight."
"Promise me gelato."
I chuckled. "Promise."
"Will you read to me?" he asked after a pause.
"Of course. Any requests?"
"Emerson," he said sleepily, settling into his pillows. "'My Garden.'"
I reclined his bed just a bit and found the hardbound book of Emerson poems, flipping to the one he asked for and read as he closed his eyes to rest.
* * *
Wandering voices in the air
And murmurs in the wold
Speak what I cannot declare,
Yet cannot all withhold.
* * *
When the shadow fell on the lake,
The whirlwind in ripples wrote
Air-bells of fortune that shine and break,
And omens above thought.
* * *
But the meanings cleave to the lake,
Cannot be carried in book or urn;
Go thy ways now, come later back,
On waves and hedges still they burn.
* * *
These the fates of men forecast,
Of better men than live to-day;
If who can read them comes at last
He will spell in the sculpture, 'Stay.'
* * *
I kept reading, knowing he was asleep, not interested in silence, wishing the words would tether him to the world forever.
All he had to do was speak and his words hit my heart, hung over me, illuminating me. I had to let Elliot go or I had to hold on to her. When the choice stood before me that plainly, I knew there was only one answer. I'd tried to let her go for seven years, and last night was proof that I hadn't. I couldn't.
It was time I stopped trying. My only hope was we could finally sit down and have the conversation we should have had years ago when we were young and afraid. The conversation I couldn't give her when I was in the thick of war. The one I didn't think she ever wanted to hear.
Now I believed she did, and I hoped she would forgive me. I would honor my father and honor myself. I would put my fears aside, and I would do whatever it took to get her back.
An hour later, I was still reading, my voice rough. The nurse had let herself in and sat next to me, checking the machines and working on paperwork while he slept — neither of us wanted to wake him — and the only sounds in the room were my voice and the ticking of the clock, the ever present marker of seconds and breaths and heartbeats.