My left hand cradled your head against the pillow. The fingers of my other hand created a soft cocoon around your arm, which lay limply on the blanket. I had been sitting cross-legged on the bed next to you for hours in that exact position. The room had become a cathedral where the lines between life and death blurred. I did not know whether you could still hear me, but I kept talking anyway.

"You're doing great, Pop. It's Bears. Rosie is here. She's doing fine. She loves you. Dad, you have the best wife. And in her eyes and our eyes, you're the best guy. We're here with you as you take this journey. It's okay now to let go. It's okay now to have your visit with God. Pop, we love you."

These words echoed in the quiet of the room. As I listened to my own voice, I felt love emanating from every cell in my body. I adored you. And I can hardly believe that I adored you. We had come such a long way together.

When did we first lose each other? Was it when I was fifteen and went, against your wishes, to visit my friends in Manhattan? Was it when I grew my hair long and sympathized with the antiwar and civil rights movements of the sixties, foolishly identifying you and Mom as the complacent and conservative middle class? Was it even earlier, when I hated you for letting me languish at military school for six additional months after I had begged you to let me come home? It took years, Pop, for me to finally understand and acknowledge that you had always done the best you could. Only as an adult did I realize how my unyielding rebelliousness must have confused you and challenged all the principles you lived by. Maybe it wasn't one particular event that strangled our relationship. Maybe it was an endless series of clashes, as I tramped awkwardly through my teens, searching unsuccessfully to make sense of myself and a world that appeared so unreasonable and unjust. I made you the symbol and the target of all my discontent.

Now, having fathered my own six children, I can easily recognize that I must have seemed like a child from hell for you. But I finally changed, Pop, as I know you did. It took us almost forty years to find our way back to each other. Forty years! A mayfly, born at dawn and gone by dusk, lives a whole life across the span of one glorious day. We had passed by each other for more than fourteen thousand of those glorious days without touching each other's hearts. We said our hellos, had our phone conversations, and sat together for many meals: you at your end of the table, I at mine, all without really connecting.

Your recollection of those years must have differed dramatically from mine. That's how it works, Pop. We each live in our own worlds, peering out from the non-neutral lens of our eyes. Ultimately, I had made peace with the belief that you would never really know me — that you didn't want to really know me. Then, what a surprise and an opportunity you gave to both of us over these past two very special years. How honored I felt and continue to feel! That you allowed me to hold your hand while you traveled this final road has been such an unexpected blessing.

In years past, you poked fun at the heart and soul of my work and lifestyle, often reacting with impatience and anger when I talked about workshops and seminars. "Too many of those 'why' questions!" you'd bellow, flipping your hand in the air as if to swat a fly.

It's okay, Pop — this was a bit of karmic retribution for my having given you such a hard time when you, the straight-talking man whose youth straddled the Great Depression, who had found your own sense of dignity and pride through providing housing and food for your family, had to put up with me, a self-absorbed and ungrateful teenager, poking fun at the safe haven you worked so diligently to maintain for all of us.

"I'm here, Pop. Right beside you. I will not leave you. You can count on me, on all of us. We all want the best for you. Rosie is doing fine. Bryn came to visit a few hours ago. You were sleeping, Pop, but she talked to you anyway — just like I'm talking to you now. She told you how you're her special grandpa; she so enjoys your gruff, understated affection toward her. She loves you and Rosie so much. But, Dad, I know you know that. We're all having the best time loving you. Are you in any pain? Just give me a sign if you are — squeeze my hand, nod your head. We want to make you as comfortable as possible."

I watched for a signal — any gesture, a fluttering from your closed eyelids. Hours had passed since you drifted back into yourself. I couldn't help but admire the dignity you showed. And then you nodded, ever so slightly, indicating pain. Kenny, who had returned with Denise and Jessica from the motel, noted your movement in the same moment I did. He and I glanced at each other and then looked down at the morphine pump that supplied you with pain medication every thirty minutes. For too long, Kenny and I had been brothers only in name, but right now the distance separating us evaporated as we moved in concert, focused on helping you.

Although the hospice nurse had advised us that you could have extra medication whenever you needed it, Rosie lobbied against it. For her, more morphine meant that comfort took precedence over healing, signaling that your death approached. Rosie wanted more time. The three decades you'd spent together suddenly seemed like an instant; she wanted more years, more months, and now more days and more hours with you. She grasped at any additional time she could get. Just having you there, Pop, asleep in bed, comforted her. For Rosie, that morphine machine represented the end of an amazing thirty-year love relationship. Each time I noticed you wincing with pain, I wanted to respect her yearning, but I wanted to help you as well.

I checked to see what Rosie was doing. She stared out the window, gazing at the valley and mountains beyond — a vista that had been a source of such pleasure for you over these past four weeks. I dipped my head as a covert signal to Kenny, who coughed loudly to mask the whining sound the pump made when I slid the manual control under the quilt and pressed the button. Rosie turned toward us, peered curiously into our faces, and then returned to her own reflections, continuing to stare out the window. Maybe on some level she knew what we had done.

Rosie had kept a constant vigil at the foot of your bed, like a warrior knight fighting the good fight on your behalf. I knew how much Rosie — your wife, lover, companion, best friend, and, more recently, health care advocate as well as caring nurse — had touched and inspired you with her love. I have always felt similarly about my relationship with Samahria (pronounced suh-MA-ree-ya), whose camaraderie and caring have blessed me all these years. Although I struggled against the walls of silence and judgment that prevailed in our family as I grew up, I always appreciated and wanted to emulate the way you treated Mom and then Rosie, treasuring them. You came off as a tough guy, a superman — but not with the women in your life. With them, you were so gentle and loving ... so fiercely protective and loyal.

I remember a case in point; I must have been about twelve years old. You had just finished dinner with Mom as I entered the kitchen doorway, unobserved. What I witnessed then stunned me, for you never really expressed...