My father had been fighting kidney and liver cancer for some time.  The chemotherapy suppressed his immune system, and he incurred a rare infection on Friday that killed him the following day.

He thought he'd broken his leg.  He didn't know he was going to die.  Perhaps that's for the best.  I just don't know.  His passing was quiet and without struggle.

I didn't have a chance to speak to him one last time.  I was unable to tell him what I never had: that I had forgiven him for the past, that I'd learned to see good parts of him in myself, and that I loved him.

So, I'm here in Virginia (which looks like a breathtaking Lionel train set from the highway), seeing family I haven't in decades and trying to get to sleep so I can see his body before it's laid to rest tomorrow.  I know it won't be him I'll be seeing; it'll be a product of the undertaker's work.  The man I want to remember was healthy and happy.

I'll miss you, dad, and I'll see you on the other side.