Today was a beautiful summer day and the little girl and I had an adventure of sorts. A beach day with a twist. We clambered over a long jetty out into the surging sea to watch men cast baited hooks and lures far out into the blue water as boats and ships lined up through the canal. Shimmering schools of tiny fish twist and undulate in the sandy shallows. Later that evening the two of us roamed the streets armed with flashlights and watch the occupants of each house …

It’s the day after he returns from his long stay at the hospital, the day before he heads to hospice. I attend a sort of going-away party. In some respects it feels like an intimate dinner – just a small group of close friends and family sitting together or milling around platters of food making small talk in hushed voices.

The wife, always the gracious hostess, drifts around urging people to eat. Meanwhile, the daughter demonstrates accents she’s mastered for a school play. “I can do posh or Cockney,” she chirps. People nod and smile. Her father sprawls just an arm’s reach away.

He lays stretched out on the couch in a sleepy haze, periodically punctuated with a soft guttural groan. His mother makes a circuit of the room, always returning to her son, pressing her cheek to his, kissing his head, whispering in his ear. My heart breaks for her.

I take my turn on the couch, reaching out to hold his withered, bruised hand. There is no strength left. I lean in close. “Your party is kinda lame.” He cracks open foggy, medicated eyes and croaks. “Who invited you?” When has that ever stopped me. His laugh is the sound of the wind through dry leaves.

What can I do for you? How can I help … ? I conjure up memories – happy memories: College, parties, concerts, that one time down in Nantucket when … He smiles and mumbles something. The family lap dog curled up at his slippered feet stirs and stares with sad eyes.

It’s almost 10 p.m. The party’s over. We need to go. I hold his hand one last time. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

But will you still be here?