Remembering

I remember that last day that my father was alive but I do not remember the year of his death.  He had been admitted into the hospital because of a cold that could have turned into pneumonia and the day before he was scheduled to be released, was Thanksgiving and my mother and I went to visit him, spending the whole day in his hospital room talking as if none of us had any cares in the world.  Late that afternoon, or actually early evening, my mother and I left and stopped at the grocery store to get something for my breakfast the next morning.

While we were eating breakfast, my father called...  I answered the phone, and he said he wanted to speak to my mother...  "let me speak to your mother," he said.  She talked briefly and hung up the phone, saying, "that was weird...  he just wanted to tell me that he loved me."  Fifteen minutes later, I had dropped her off at the hospital, returning home to shower and drive back over to spend whatever time there was together before his release and I would depart leaving to meet my wife at her mother's house in Virginia.

While talking a shower, I heard my sister yelling at me from downstairs and after wrapping a towel around me, walked over to the rail and look down at her and she said, "Dad died."  It was a phrase I thought I would never hear, at least not on the day that he was to be released from the hospital and come home.  "What the hell happened," I questioned? 

My sister informed me that when our mother had called her that she was told by the nurses that his heart and the rest of his organs just gave out.

I don't know why I remembered this today...  this morning...  as it is usually a memory more closely related to Thanksgiving...  but, here it is...  and, I just thought I would share.