Writer in the Forest

Chapter 18

Dad was finally taking breaths. It was days before his 75^th birthday when he went off life support and continued to live. His eyes had been open for three days, and for three days he’d been narrating the scene outside his window.

“What are you watching, Dad?”

“Workmen,” he answered. “See them?”

Dad didn’t make eye contact with the nurses or me. He was busy watching men in white coats trimming trees outside his window. Only Dad could see them. They had a truck, according to Dad. I had creepy feelings. Were there ghosts and angels here? I always thought I was sensitive to spirits and other things not quite of this world.

“Do you see your mother?” I whispered this in all honesty.

“Of course not!” he said with disgust. “They’re out there working.”

I waved. Perhaps there really were angels out there, waiting with their chariot to pick him up. I played along. He was quiet for a while, listening to their conversation. I thought they were calling to him. After all, he hadn’t eaten in eight days.

Was it time to go towards the light? Do people ever go into the tunnel with their living eyes open? I was quiet, too, straining to feel the presence of the Angel of Death, who must be watching my Dad carefully and waiting for his moment. I was looking in all corners of the room with a knowing look, just to spook the Angel so he’d think I could see him.

What were they doing now? I thought the chariot was waiting at the curb and the dying were about to depart.

“Dad, what’s happening?”

“They’re looking at you.”