The Last Time I Saw My Father
On this Father’s Day I remember the only time I saw my father, Tom Jose, during my adulthood. (Second time if you include four days I spent at his El Paso home when I was in college.) This was 18 years ago or so.
His wife Dorothy called the day before to say he was dying; my wife Kathy called me at work to let me know. When I got home, Kathy ushered me over to look at her computer screen. “Here’s the best flight to Houston. It gets you there tomorrow afternoon. I just want you to confirm which day you’re coming home.”
Before I could interrupt, she went on. “I have some points for a hotel about ten minutes from the hospital, and I have a screen up for you to confirm a car reservation once your flight is booked.”
“Did you pack for me too?” I joked.
“Mostly, it’s all up on the bed. You might want to check the shirt situation.”
Though we had not talked much about my father, it was clear that Kathy understood what this moment meant to me. There was never a question of whether I would go.
I arrived at his floor at the hospital the next afternoon. The nurse at the desk took one look at my face and said, “You must be Mr. Jose’s son,” and gave me his room number…
