My brother Paul doesn’t call often. Not because he doesn’t like me, but because he’s a busy guy with more to do than he has time for. But when he does call, my heart stops until I hear his first words.
My thought is always the same. “Is Dad gone? Was it today?”
In a few short months, Dad will be 92. He survived one open-heart surgery well into his 80’s, and he’s been in slipping downhill ever since–especially since my mother died.
I can’t bring myself to erase the faltering sound of his voice mail messages repeating the same questions, giving me the same quiet assurances that he’s okay when he’s not.
I am already broken at the thought of losing him, knowing my life will change in one sentence.
Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps next month.
I do not erase email messages. I do not turn off my phone at night or on trips. And I never say good-bye without saying “I love you.”
I don’t think we can ever say it enough.