Jay Williams

A Grand Man

This particular Sunday morning I decided to take one last walk around the lake before my father would be free of his earthly body.  It's best to come out around 5am to lessen the chance you'll see another live creature.   It's not so bad running into a squirrel or two I suppose.  Or to have an ever skittish coyote meet your gaze and make a quick decision to freeze then dart back to the bushes with purpose. I always feel guilt for disturbing them. It's their lake. The serenity of this massive body of water is always being confronted by the urban environment. The heavy gaze of downtowns massive buildings, the angst of the commuter, and the dirty and dense smog coming down wind from the other decaying city on this massive water mass that goes on and on.  On that morning the clouds hung low, dull, and grey. Some would say oppressive but I would say comforting.  A means to spend the day in bed but remain outside.  As I sought comfort outdoors I knew today I had to leave my peace on this lake shore and go confront a singular and sharp pain.  On this quiet day I knew I had to go to my fathers apartment for the last time.  Two years ago he was given a finite amount of days to finish his journey on earth.  Fast forward to two weeks ago he had three to four months. And every day the hospice nurse shortened that time dramatically.  Your father has a month.  Your father has a few weeks.  A few days.  Any day.  Any hour.  Any minute.