August 10, 1964

The hospital smelled strongly of chemicals as usual, though their sting couldn't cut through the deeper sadness in my heart. My dad had been getting worse these past weeks, the tremors and twisting getting stronger each time I saw him.

But nothing could have prepared me for seeing him like this. Laying in the white bed, his body was curled up tight, limbs shaking uncontrollably. A horrible rattling sound came from his chest, like something was broken inside.

His eyes looked right at me but didn't seem to see. It was like he wasn't even in there anymore.

Mama sat me on the edge of the bed and held me close. I grasped Dad's hand, hoping somehow he'd know I was there. But his skin was pale and cold, the pulse in his wrist gone slack and still.

"Dad?" I called out softly, my voice trembling. But he didn't respond, didn't even blink. I knew then he was truly gone.

The tears came sudden and hot, blurring my vision as I clung to his lifeless hand. My father, my strong, hard-working father, now lay empty before me. A pain opened in my chest that I didn't know how to close. Daddy was dead, and nothing would ever be the same again.

The car ride home passed in a blur. I stared blankly out the window, my head filled with a dull, roaring numbness. Nothing Mom said could penetrate it.

When we pulled up to our little house, I moved silently inside as if in a trance. The creaky screen door, the faded carpets—they all seemed unreal now.

In my room, I sat on the edge of my bed, hands clutched in my lap. "It's not fair," I muttered to the four walls that had borne witness to so many of my dreams and fears shared with Dad.

But now he was gone, ripped away without warning by that terrible sickness. And as much as it ached, a deeper fear was taking root—that soon even my memories of him would start to blur and fade.

I didn't want to forget his laugh, or the way his mustache quirked when he smiled, or our talks gazing at the stars together. But already I found myself grasping to recall the hue of his eyes, or the calluses on his palms.

Panic rose in my throat. I couldn't let him disappear—I had to hold on to whatever pieces of him I still had, no matter what. Daddy might be dead, but as long as I remembered him, a part of him would still live on.