Aunt Penny and I were sitting at the kitchen table on Monday morning. The living room and kitchen connected with just the counter separating the rooms. The bright, white living room contained only her and I. Pictures lined the walls of those who had once lived, too.

We talked about trivial issues. Nothing as important as the phone call.

The phone ringtone sings, but it sounds as shrill as a scream. I read the small, orange screen.

Waverly Health & Rehabilitation Center

My heart jumped. I do not think she had any suspicion of the matter. Pressing the phone up to her face, she answered in a normal tone.

"Hello?" Aunt Penny spoke, unaware of the change that was to take place.

I saw it in her face. When she answered, I knew. Her face stayed the same. She didn't start crying. But, I knew.

He's gone.

I couldn't believe the turn of events. We were going to see him in 20 minutes. But, we would have been hours too late.

Surprisingly, my heart was holding up. I didn't cry. Not in the moments following the call.

I was at peace. He was at peace.

He suffered for seven months and ten days without his beloved other half. Grandma had passed away without warning. The doctors had given my family an estimate that Papa wouldn't live to see the next week. The stage-four lung and brain cancer was finally taking him over.

I went to see him Thursday afternoon with my father. Then, my mother took me to see him on Friday before we took a trip. Then, on the return trip on Sunday, we stopped in to spend some more time with him.

I was the last to say Goodbye.

His eyes were half-closed and half-open.

This is how I saw him the Friday before.

Those previous visits were nowhere near as important as Sunday's visit.

I entered the room and he remained as I left him on Friday. Eyes half-closed and half-open. Still breathing. Unresponsive, but warm enough for life.

Outward sounds were drowned out in the impending moments. Somewhere down the hall, a pair were talking. And somewhere down further, the nurses were answering phone calls and speaking loudly to those who could not hear so well.

Across the room beside the television, a bible rested. I did not know the last time he was able to touch it.

I placed it in my hands and sat at his bedside. I reached under the covers and grabbed his hand. I hadn't done it in a long time and fresh tears sprang to my eyes. The warmth of his fingers radiated to my heart.

Although he hasn't worked in his garden for two years, his hands had a permanent roughness. His bedridden state deprived me of the memories of a healthy man who would spend all morning, afternoon, and night in the garden. In the corner, a stack of yogurt cups that he saved to keep tomato seeds while they germinate in the spring. Then, he planned to plant them outside the nursing home in the flower bed underneath his window.

I closed my eyes and prayed for a verse.

I opened the book of life and read it to a man who is dying. My Papa.

"The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail." (Isaiah 58:11)

Then, a myriad of verses. I read from Matthew 13, The Parable of the Sower.

Some verses I was able to recall by heart. Psalms 23. John 3:16.

Throughout the visit, I felt gentle stirs. I remembered that when I left on Friday, I hugged him and whispered in his ear, just in case we did not meet again for the rest of my life. I felt the Lord pulling on my heartstrings in that moment to deliver a message. I became a vessel for the words of the Lord to serve their purpose.

"You've done good. I'm so proud of you. You've raised a son who has had a daughter and a daughter who has had a son. You've had growth in your life. You have shown love." Finally, I whispered for what I thought would be the last time, "I love you."

I started to pull away, but his arm caught mine.

I immediately leaned in for another hug.

After another moment or so, I walked away. Down the long, white hallway. Careful not to look at anyone. Careful not to show my tears.

But, as I read the verses on Sunday, the comfort of each word touched me.

I stopped to look at his chest.
Up. Down. Up. Down.

Still Breathing.

I said a prayer and thanked the Lord for Papa and for life and for growth.

Then, I left.

I would like to think that in those moments, his soul entered the arms of God.

And then I'm comforted.

At least he didn't die alone.