He was my age now when he died. I entered his hospital room and dad laid underneath the sterile white bedding, oxygen prongs in his nostrils beneath his wire-framed tear-drop glasses. Unshaven, and his head rolling back and forth on the pillow, he asks to be taken out of his misery. The window was open, on this first day of winter which he hated. I felt his chi escape to the forest outside, as he took his last breath, when my husband promised him he’d take care of me forever. That was dad’s death wish. Life is not the same without him, but he visits me as a mourning dove bestowing peace.
where in sky is dad
can he hear when I speak now
the clouds are falling
By Diana Raab. Published in A Celebration of Trees by S.L. Carlson, Editor (Orenaug Mountain Publishing, 2026).