Watching my father take his last breaths over a Zoom video felt cold, distant, lonely, and unreal.

 

I couldn’t have a private moment with him because many family members were on the Zoom call, some of whom never reached out to my father and probably didn’t have much of a relationship with him.

 

My wife and I had just arrived at Walmart when I got a phone call from my mother. She told me that the hospital had contacted her to let her know my father was not doing well.

 

Within minutes, we set up a Zoom meeting with the hospital.

 

I had no time to get home.

 

That day, my wife and I had met in town after I got off work to do some grocery shopping. My wife told me to spend time with my father and that she would meet me at home.

 

I had no idea that we were putting together what felt like a family reunion. I thought it would be more of a private moment.

 

I knew the family on the Zoom call was there for support and to pay their respects to my father. Still, it felt like some people didn’t understand or grasp the emotional gravity of what was happening.

 

I felt like I was at a family reunion.

 

Yes, I hadn’t seen some people in a while, and others hadn’t seen one another. But I felt like this wasn’t the time or place to catch up.

 

My father was dying.

 

I remember thinking to myself,

 

If he makes it through the night, I will call him in the morning and speak with him one-on-one.

 

About forty-five minutes into my drive home, my mother called me.

 

She asked if I was driving and, if so, to pull over.

 

I pulled over onto the side of the dirt road.

She told me that my father had just passed away.

 

I sat there in quietness and disbelief.

 

My mother stayed on the phone and talked with me. She didn’t know how to respond, but her presence was comforting.

 

I remember her asking if I was okay to drive.

 

I told her I was less than five minutes from my house and that I would call her later.

 

I stayed on the side of the road for a few more minutes, gathering my thoughts and letting my tears fall.

 

Then I called my wife to tell her about my father.

 

My father and I were a metaphor for each other.

 

When I walked into my father’s apartment, I had so many emotions.

 

As I walked around, I felt tightness in my chest. My feelings were all over the place, and I fought to compress them.

 

I looked around the apartment, examining what remained of his last moments there.

 

I felt like I was in a time capsule.

 

I began to wonder:

 

What were his last thoughts before leaving to go to the hospital?

 

Did he know he would not return?

 

Did he leave certain items to be found by friends, strangers, or family members?

 

I cleaned and staked claims on items in his private space.

 

As I sorted through his personal belongings, I felt like I was discovering things I never knew about my father.

 

I felt like I was finding missing puzzle pieces to questions I had asked and questions I never got the chance to ask.

 

It has been almost a year since my father passed, and from time to time, I revisit my mental table with the scattered pieces of his life puzzle.