by Crimson Boudoir

Created on: November 18, 2009   Last Updated: November 19, 2009

The man in the bed , bone thin and in a confusion of agony, was not how I wanted to remember my father. My father was strong, and tall. My father rode motorcycles and was a decorated World War II veteran. The man in the bed looked at me with pleading eyes. He could not speak. My father had a voice that could melt the hardest heart. He had a crooked smile, and a ridiculous sense of humor. The man in the bed knew for the first time, that there were no more reprieves, no more bargaining chips. My father had cheated death several times. He had barely made it out alive from the Fiji Islands, pieces of shrapnel, the souvenirs of war, embedded in his neck; he had survived one devastating accident after another. In retrospect, he liked pushing the limits. He often flew his little German fighter plane, the one with the open cockpit, drunk. He always landed, unscathed. Now Death was coming for her due.

I wanted to be able to take away all of this ailing man's pain and frustration but all I could do was offer small comforts. The man in the bed was my father, and I was going to lose him. I knew it, and for the first time, I saw that he knew it. I was 29 years old.

My father could make you believe in things that never existed and could never exist. He had been given the gift of illusion. He lived in a world that he created, away from emotional pain, away from anything unpleasant. I would complain about something by using the words, "I hate...." And he was adamant in his stern reply, "You don't HATE anything."

He was an anomaly; a man's man who was deeply sensitive and tragically generous. He told tall tales. His library was filled with history books, mainly of the war. World War II was his favorite topic, and when he spoke about it, you could feel him there. He had spent 18 months overseas, beginning at the age of 17, and a lot of it, in a VA hospital. He became alive when recalling life on the battlefield. He exuded a feeling of purpose, a deep connection with the other young men, which I know he never could replicate within the rest of his life.

As a little girl, my sister and I spent summers with him in Long Island. He and my mother separated when we were very young. Being with my father was an event which we both looked forward to. Because he only visited us during the winter months- a day here and there; summer was the time of my father. I will always associate him with July. Popsicles, bike riding, and ripe peaches. Sand and sea, and promise. He was illusive, magnanimous,

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