My Father Died, Sitting Upright, on the Side of His Bed
It's an interesting image to have in your head, the patriarch taking his last breath while either readying himself for slumber or readying himself for his own kind of war on the day. Two disparate ideas at odds with each other and yet equally viable. While I hate saying it, I think my father had given up on fighting against the day a long time ago. After combing through the scattered bits of life left behind in written form and reminiscing over the several thousand conversations with him over the years, I think he was ready for release. I think he was finally fatigued by his earthly fatigues. To be found sitting upright, though. That's an image I don't think I'll ever shake. For the entire body to keep itself propped up appropriately, only to be found like that hours, or even a day or two, later is...it's strange, even by my standards. It's something I can't stop playing in my head because it's so bizarre that it feels like something I would've ...