Last year, I went home to watch my father die–though I didn’t know it until I landed.
We gathered round him to sing and reminisce; to hold his hand and each other.
Twelve hours later, we were arranging logistics, designing a bulletin, planning the memorial.
One by one my siblings hopped their flights to head home, but there were still a few hours before mine.
Raw from crying, my mother, brother, and I ran out of things to say. We found ourselves in a booth at Dairy Queen, eating a Blizzard, a Buster Bar, a slushie, wondering, what next?