Some time after two o’clock this morning Leroy returned to his ICU bed from taking a pee outdoors, laid down, and stopped breathing. The last night he spent at home was his birthday on Monday. I hadn’t even taken the time to write anything about his trip to the emergency room and the hospital and the resultant anxiety. Now… well…

The night doctor called us right away. Called my wife, rather. She awoke, picked up the phone, and let out a wail of agony like I’d never heard before. It was beautiful and terrifying. My reaction was more visceral, literally. I took the news straight to the gut. I thought I’d vomit. Stumbling to the bathroom I could feel that greasy eye socket sweat that seems to accompany a really good sick.

We drove through the night to view him. I had a difficult time looking at him with his eyes slack and tongue agog. I needed to keep a bit of distance. I just didn’t like seeing him that way.

His ashes will arrive in a few days. I only glanced at the paperwork from the crematorium, but got the impression that they will arrive with a selection of materials that aim for heartfelt, but land somewhere near crass and aggravating.