The last morning

I stare at the empty champagne bottle in the kitchen sink, the delicate flute now filled with water. I imagine what a lonely New Years Eve it must have been for him, abandoned by grown children caught up in their own lives.

Maybe sad and poignant. Maybe hopeful for the coming year. Maybe full of faith in me—the one who works miracles and still can disappoint.

I decide then, after I've shed the flowing satin dress, that I will not crawl into early morning bed with lamplight and a book. I slide in next to him instead. Though my presence is unexpected, he moves over.

I drape my arm over his chest, nestle my head in his shoulder like the child I once was. He turns his cheek instinctively to mine. I kiss it.

"I love you, Daddy," I whisper.

He leaves his cheek there long enough to let me know he's heard before wrapping his arms around my own and drifting again.

Even when his breaths become even, he drums his fingers rhythmlessly on my arms. I remember as a girl never knowing if the constantly-moving giant was ever really sleeping. A shaking foot. A tapping finger. Mind roving even in unconsciousness.

I extricate myself from our entwined limbs and kiss him gently, wordlessly, on the temple. In the dim morning light the giant smiles softly, his fading grey hair an ethereal halo.

I disappear to greet the sun. My last morning home.


Photo by James Mitchell courtesy Corbis