Monday, April 12, 2010
I think I've mentioned that in the last few hours of my father's life, he repeatedly lifted his hand and made a motion as if he were reaching for and twisting a doorknob. The day before Mom died, she lifted her hand and made a very distinct, deliberate knocking gesture.
When our cat Phoebe died, Harley searched for her all over the house. Periodically, he'd scratch at a closet door, which is what he does when another cat's trapped in there and he wants us to let the other cat out. Gary, watching this behavior, said, "We're sorry, Harley. She's behind a door we can't open."
Mom and Dad are behind a door I can't open, yet. When I cross that threshold, I hope they'll be waiting for me.