I’m up on the big green couch. My feet dangle over the edge as I lean against my dad. Dust and cigarette smoke sparkle and slowly swirl through the bright beams of sun coming through the window behind us. On the coffee table directly in front of us, folded pages of the day’s newspaper, the heavy green glass ash tray, and an open can of Schlitz beer. My dad and I both stare at the little black-and-white TV across the room.

“Twenty seconds and counting” a man’s voice intones over visuals of a tall white rocket on a launch pad. It sounds like a man talking through a walkie-talkie.

Something important is about to happen. I don’t really know what it is, but I can feel it.

The countdown reaches the end and the voice announces “Ignition.” Flames and great clouds of smoke billow from the rocket as it slowly climbs upwards. “We have lift off.”

The camera follows the rocket as it grows smaller and smaller. At some point, the action cuts to a two men behind a desk talking. Talking and talking. At some point, the men show the mission patch featuring three colorful horses galloping across space. I really like that.

Sometime later, my dad and I are outside walking to the town pond across the street. I love how he holds my hand as I lean out over the water, looking for frogs or fish. “Don’t let me fall!” I scream, but I know he won’t.

“Daddy, how far away is the moon?” He puts down his cigarette, picks me up and points up into the sky. My gaze follows his extended finger to the pale crescent hovering high above the tall pine trees. It looks small and really far away.

It’s 1970. I’m three-years-old and I want to be an astronaut. I also want Santa to bring me walkie-talkies for Christmas.

At least one of those ambitions will eventually come true.

***

It’s January 31, 2021. My phone rings. It’s my mom’s ring-tone. She’s frantic. “Your father …” He’s had a second stroke and been rushed to the hospital.

“What am I gonna do?” she pleads. It’s snowing and windy outside. I call the hospital. New visitation policy: One person for one hour per day, no exceptions. We’ll see about that.

An hour later, I lead my mother from the parking garage to the hospital entrance. I know the way. We take the elevator up to the floor my dad is on. Mom repeats hospital policy, “But they said …”

I talk to the nurse at the desk and explain the situation, she leads us through a set of double doors marked “Neurological Intensive Care.” Another nurse brings us to a large airy room with a single patient. “Doctor so and so will be with you soon.”

I barely recognize the man in the bed. Someone, probably one of the nurses has pulled the pale blue sheet up almost to his chin. His face is sunken and grey; eyes tightly shut and toothless mouth agape. There is no movement. The only sound is a barely audible rasp of breathing and my mother’s stifled sobs. She moves to straighten his hair with her fingers and whisper in his ear.

I stand and watch. There is nothing to say. The conclusion is inevitable. Mom holds out hope. Maybe, maybe … Down the hall people in hospital scrubs assemble and move as a group towards our room. Here it comes. I reach out to hold my mother’s hand.

The somber neurology team introduces themselves before explaining the situation, their efforts on my father’s behalf, and the inevitable conclusion. “A day. Maybe, two … at most.”

The lead doctor concludes by reminding us about hospital policy and that we’ve already stayed longer than an hour. “We’re very sorry.” My mother starts to cry.

The team retreats.

Before we leave, I take a few minutes and for the last time hold my dear dad’s hand. Just like I used to … a lifetime ago.