The Last Goodbye

You never know when a goodbye will be the last.

When my father was in his sixties I knew his health

Was not great even though when he shook my hand

In our farewells,

His grip was strong

His hugs were tight.

And he endured through his eighties,

His grip ever lighter.

His hugs ever looser.

When transient ischemic attacks

Decimated his brain with neural debris, his eyes

Lost luster and his grip was so weak that he only waved.

No hugs.

Each time I bade him goodbye I thought it was the last.

He kept fooling me until the real last one.

I thought it was the last because he had not used my name

Once in my visit.

This time I was right.

So when I saw my daughter off at the Honolulu Airport

I did not shake her hand, but gave her a firm hug.

She has seen enough death in her life

That I think she might be wondering about my goodbyes.

All I can do is make sure I hug her tightly each time,

Keep my grip firm.