When dad was passing he looked at me and said, "I waited for you. I knew you'd come. I can go now. It's so beautiful. It's so beautiful. Don't cry, baby. I love you so much. I hope you understand. I KNOW you understand. I knew you would. I know it's hard, honey. It's ok. I need to go." Then he told me he loved me three times and that he tried (I feel he was speaking of trying to live to see daughter get married the following month as it's all he spoke of). It was a gift to me from him. That was the last time he spoke. As soon as he drifted, I wrote those words down on my checkbook ledger (the only paper I could find quickly) in that ICU room.

I will NEVER forget those words spoken thru that God-awful mask...through that mask, and with not enough air, he spoke clearly and forcefully so that I would know...so that he could attempt to ease MY pain. It now sits with his flag, medals, pictures...that checkbook ledger that contains the final gift that he gave to me.

Somehow it was so appropriate that it was just me and him. A father and his only daughter. The child that was "just like him". The sharing, uninterrupted...