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Goodbye to ALI That/An old mail dying and a little girl kissing his liand By GARRISON KCLLLOR Mar. 12, 2001 My fathcr John, a carpentcr and cabinctniakcr and railway mail clerk, is taking his lcave of this world in a bcdroom that was minę when 1 was 18.1 lay whcrc lic is lying now, in the nortlicast comer of thc room, and looked out tlić window at night to a red blinking Jight on a distant water tower and imagined living in New York City and other grand things, and now at 87 he lies in thc bed and imagines the risen Christ mceting him witli open arms, as in the hymns tliat his móming nursc Ramona sings to hini.

Shc is a wonian ofgrcat cnergy and compassion who brings her guitar and sings When I Survey tlie Wondrous Cross, Abidc with Me and other old favorites. and the other moming shc got him to smile by singing When Johnny Comcs Marching Home. Ramona is an angel.

My fatlier has chronię pncuinonia tliat many rounds of antibiotics couldn't elear up. Twice in thc past ycar, an arabulance had to bc called to haul him to the hospital for suctioning proccdurcs that hc found drcadful, and after talking it over with my motlicr, lic decidcd he wouldn't go down tliat road again. He was brought homc and put on hospicc carc, and thc dccision was madę to takc him off antibiotics.

Thcy śimply wcrcn't doing him any good. Therc wcrc c-mail exchanges about this dccision, which seemed grave, and my mother and sister notified thc funcral home, and my brotlier began to plan thc scrvice, and Dad went ofTthc antibiotics and got a little better. Iliat was a few wccks ago.

My fathcr built this house he now lies in. Hc poured thc concretc and framed up both floors and hoisted thc roof beam and shingled thc roof and nailed tlie siding and tlie flooring and thc insulation and tlie drygali, and plantcd thc apple orchard and thc half-acrc of vcgetablc garden to feed his six childrcn.

Six childrcn is about what you need if you'rc hoping to dic at home and not in a warehouse. My youugcr brotliers and sister take tunis on night duty, along with my niece, and of course my mother is there, seeing to everything, administering thc Iicjuid nutrients and Tylcnol tlirough a feeding tubę, adjusting tlie oxygcn. It is an up-and-down business. At various times, he has seemed to be at dcath's door, and distant family have flown in to say goodbye, and then tlie other night, with my little girl standing at his bedsidc and poking him, he sccmcd rcady to pick up his bed and walk. "Ali I do is nap all day," he said to mc. "They keeping you pretty busy?"

Tlie bandbook on dying that the hospice gave us adviscs you to forgive thc dying person and cxpress your love and your gratitude, and to say goodbye. It docsn't cxplain how to do this with someonc who is cxtrcmely bard of hearing and who, even w'hcn he could hcar, ncvcr went in for such declarations. And w^rhat about all those things you'rc not surę whether to forgivc or feel grateful for?

When I was 18, hc told me hc wouldn’t pay a penny for my college education, and so I worked my way tlirough school and thereby got the gifl of independencc, an inestimablc gifl. But I stand in the doorway and look at him, asleep, and I am afraid of him. He is still my dad, and his power is greater than that of thc New York Times.

I remember when my Grandma Kcillor lay dying in a little hospital in Onamia, tended by her daughters, and my fathcr and his brotliers camc to bid farewell to her. They drew up tlieir chairs to the foot of tlie bed where shc lay unconscious, and they werc vcrv still and solemn for a wliilc, but in due course they got to talking about cars. It struck me at tlie timc as callous—1 was 20 and a poet—to sit by your dying mother and discuss a particular low-mileagc Ford station wagon you’d seen on a used-car lot in Anoka, and now it sccins likc thc most natural tliing in the world. Life goes on. Your mother is dying, but a man needs wheels.

The best gift I can give my fathcr is to bring my daughter to visit him. Shc touches his foot, and he wrigglcs his tocs. Shc throws a bali at him; hc tlirows it back. Shc smiles a bcatific smilc. Shc kisses his hand and his chcck. She waves bye-bye. She has no words for this. It is pure lovc.

Shc is tlircc, tlie age I was when hc wrote a letter to mc and my brotlier and sister in 1945 from New York, saying how much he missed us w^fhile hc was in the Army, billeted in a hotel at Broadway and 29th. He thought about us every day, hc said, and wished we could be with him but didn't think it wise for children to gro w up in a city among so many peoplc. It was signed, "Love, Daddy." I never saw the letter until a wcek ago. It ncvcr occurrcd to mc that he loved mc, but of course hc did, and it was nice to hear about it at last.