So my dad died yesterday. I spent the whole night with him, holding his hand, listening to him breathe, wondering when it would be his last. He died in his bed, at home, with my wife Carla and me next to him.
For the past three years I have been waiting, terrified he’d die when I was away. I didn’t want him to go on his own, surrounded by strangers or plugged into machines. I feel lucky to have had these last three years. To have left nothing unsaid. To know we loved each other nakedly, without embarrassment. To have felt his pride at my accomplishments. And to have discovered how funny he was. Just last week, on his 99th birthday, I asked him how old he thought he was. Grinning, he said: “Twenty-two and a half?” Now he’s gone to Paris to meet my mum。