I try to help Dad cope during the last three years of his life, avoiding topics that upset him, letting him talk as long as he wants, holding his hand the way he used to support me. But the inevitable end simply waits outside, until the right time.

It’s all downhill for Dad. His body rebels while his mind is painfully aware of what’s happening. Yet there are alarming moments when he doesn’t connect the dots. He is shuffled from one facility to the next, and clearly annoyed. My step-mom calls these times, “Énergivore.” We are all drained of energy.

Dad says, “Nursing homes are where old people go to die.” The care-givers are “nice enough, but the food is not the Ritz.” He wants the doctor to give the “all-clear” so he can go back home to the Farm. I sympathize with his grievances, then redirect him to happier times. I know he will never return home again.

We reminisce all afternoon while I record an hour of my favorite Dad stories and family history. I need to preserve the sound of his voice and familiar expressions. Back at the Farm, I relive Dad’s memories in his “Rogue’s Gallery” of framed photos that stretch down the hallway.

I feel him slipping farther from me, taking a breath between each word. We sort through a pile of unopened letters from dear friends which I read aloud. Dad gives me an unread book about a journalist and his dog. I turn on classical music and watch him sleep for awhile. When he wakes I promise to return tomorrow.

On the day that Dad dies, I wake up agitated. Without even getting out of bed, I make photos of sunrise as it slips along the ceiling. Both of us are falling. I am falling away from childhood memories; Dad is falling away from life.