I was putting the key into the deadbolt of my front door when I thought, “I’ll have to ask my dad what it was like to die”.  It struck me in an instant that this would not be possible since he was in fact dead. At once the feeling of realization was cold and electrical. If you could see the pattern of fright and pain in my body it might look like leafless tree branches.  But I thought it again, “I wonder what he was seeing, I’ll ask him”. Another surge.  My brain could not comprehend his death. We spoke this morning. He asked me to hold his hand. I said, I’ll be right back”, and put my shoes on and brushed my teeth instead.  I knew we’d be taking a trip to the hospital and I didn’t feel prepared. This was after all his second heart attack. But now he didn’t exist. The last time I saw him he laid on his arched back, tubes hanging from his mouth, a sheet draped up to his neck. The sheet was much wider than him, I could tell his chest lay open wide. Two flaps of meat under there. They were hiding it from my mother and I. She said, ”Say something to him, his spirit might be in the room”. I lost it. Crying through the words “I wish I had been a better son”.  His eyes were dull and dry. That’s the life leaving they talk about.  It’s just dry eyes.