A crazy whisper —

Me voy.

***

My father is about 57 years old and lying in a hospital bed somewhere in Toronto. Tomorrow afternoon I leave Buenos Aires to board a 12-hour flight — I am going home .

The last time we spoke, my father and I, it was exactly a week ago. This was the first time in nearly three months I heard his voice, as I didn't bother, or hardly even consider, calling him once throughout this journey.

We talked mostly of a silver dollar he lent me — or gave and then decided he wanted back when I visited him in the old age him he calls home, about a week before I flew to Peru.

"Hold onto this, and you'll never be broke," he said.

Later, thinking over these words, I realize it's a clever joke. So clever, I'm not entirely sure he means it the way I understand. "Hold on to this bit of old, valueless currency, and you'll always have at least one coin in your pocket."

Tonight as I packed I searched frantically for the coin, as I'd really like to present it to him when I show up.

***

There's so much I'd want to tell you about my dad. I feel so awful right now it's impossible to even start.

There's this one picture of the three brothers and him all dressed up in soccer gear beneath a tree in the small town we grew up. It's a beatiful sunny day in a park, the grass is green, the tree is in full bloom. Three of us stand in front of dad, in a triangular position, arms a kimbo. A little soccer team of four. Everyone in the family knows and loves this picture; we can refer to it vaguely as 'the photo' or perhaps 'the soccer picture' and I'm sure immediately we'd know what was being discussed.

It captures a light which my family has rarely beheld, which we have rarely known as a body, as a beautiful thing together. There's the three brothers: tiny little Toby with a mushroom cut, tiny Evan smirking fiendishly, and lanky, taller, but tiny Andy, fighting with me, I think, to share the space on the ball with his cleat ( I remember it took us some time to figure out who received the honour.) Dad looks young, happy. He's a doctor, with a beautiful wife and three beautiful, intelligent kids.

It was nearly 10 years later that Dad was diagnosed with Parkinsons. And soon after life for us all, and our mother, has been, well, everything this photo isn't. That's a trite and weak way to put it, but how else describe a thing that has engulfed me, us all, for so long, in such a dark, strenuous way, in less than a volume of words and chapters?

I think this photo must be just essentially ... I can't really say right now. I am sobbing just writing about it.

Anyway, the point is, last January the four of us - the boys - were together for a small, rare vacation in Miami. Somehow, someone asked the question: "Dad, what do you want us to with you when you die?"

He said: "scatter the ashes under that tree — from the photo."

***

I am sad to be leaving, but I'm at peace with it too.

I can write more on everything later. I am headed home to be with Dad. He is sick and in a hospital. Things were looking worse before; so things are improving. I know little because I am Argentina, and disconnected from that world.

I feel awful for writing about things so personal. I do not mean to profit of this awfulness, although I do get a sense of renewed understanding as I write.

Perhaps I'll delete this later.