I showed up pretty late in the game, have to admit. Still, when you’re half way around the world what’re gonna do? Dad wasn’t even conscious when I first got there. He only winked back into consciousness long enough to disparage me and “forgive” me. Under normal circumstances, I would have had to argue with the old man on just what the hell he felt that I needed “forgiveness” for? I mean we never played into that whole prodigal son thing. Or so I thought? But anyway, couldn’t do anything but hug the old man and cry like a baby saying, “god damn I love you dad,” over and over with him unable to move almost just whispering kind of there-there. Dad being dad right to the end strong thinking about his family. Our family is loud and emotional and man what a mess dad’s death scene - you know what I mean? Probably not. Hopefully not. For the love of God Almighty, I wouldn’t wish such understanding on my worst enemy. Seriously, what was I thinking.

Dad’s death was emotionally super-charged by our family engine and at some point in the now bleary memory of the whole ordeal, I had my time alone with the old man. Jesus, it couldn’t have been any more dramatic. And then there is what he said to me, you know? Couldn’t have blown me away more if dad had said he was gay or something? Especially since I expected the old man to tell me person to person what an utter and complete fuck up he thinks that I am.
“I need to tell you now, Bill, I’ve heard the voices since I was a teenager sometime -”
I had to interrupt him, “voices?”
His normally bear paw hand squeezed mine weakly, “common, Bill, I know, you can be real with me. I’ll be gone soon”
That was when I laid my head on dad’s huge, dying chest and cried my eyes out. I could barely hear him, “I need to tell you so you know you’re not nuts, son - that much I know but I don’t understand much more than that. Your grandpa heard them, too. Never told anyone in the world for his 89 years except me, not even your grandma, Bill”
When he mentioned granddad, I really lost it. “I have to pull myself together,” I thought wildly. “I’m not the one dying here.” That’s one of the truly beautiful things about my father, the old man always had that way of making everything about “you” - whoever you were.

But for the first time in years I thought that perhaps I was not insane after all? And it wasn’t lost on me that dad was passing down an almost sacred family secret. Now I wonder if the voices have to be a secret or if perhaps I might tell someone about them, you know, before I'm on my death bed?