My father died on his favourite day

“Dad just died,” said my mother into the phone.

I was standing in the kitchen of the apartment I shared with my love and partner. The night before, Christine and I had attended an early Christmas Mass and serendipitously opted to pay a visit to my ailing father in the home where I was born and I grew up.

He managed to say a few words to me: “It's horrible” and “the trick is not to stay too long” — meaning don't wear out my welcome. I knelt by his bedside and prayed a short while.

On my way out, my sister Martha said, “That was a good visit.” It was lucky that we decided to go that night rather than wait for Christmas. I don't like talking about it.

A few days later, I broke down at church. I was giving the second reading and completely fell apart. I do remember two people in the pews who stood out. My father's old “chum,” Pat Mcalpine, stood straight and tall, and my brother Lawrence observed my distress with a thoughtful expression. I was a wreck and some people were comforting.

Someone going past me at Communion patted me nicely on the shoulder. (Maybe it was Dad?) I heard my father's voice say, “Come on, now, Peter” — meaning to stop my acting out.

Christine was beside me and later my Aunt Noreen told me that if Christine had not been by my side, she would have been. I remember the most beautiful singing of Be Not Afraid from the rows behind me and I knew it was my mother's family doing the singing. That was a fine and lovely moment.

Then he was gone. Seventy-five years old and he died on the day and time he loved the most: Christmas morning.