7/24/07 4:30 a.m.

Note: This is one of a series of pieces that I'll be posting which were written out in longhand as events were occurring.

When I was a teenager and young man, Daddy and me had one thing in common: insomnia. Coutless nights we sat up in the living room--often in the dark--talking or not, somtimes reading, others staring at the TV screen.

And sometimes it wasn't insomnia so much as storms: if one woke us up, we were up for the duration. I either chattered on nervously or paced the floor, while he, always the force for calm, remained unshakened.

I was scared. He was just awake.

Now I'm sitting up with Daddy again, only this time it's me trying to help him by be being a reassuring voice. Through all the tubes and sensors and dings, dongs and beeps, I know that, somewhere, somehow, he hears me.

So I remind him of how this is almost like old times. Almost. Then again, not at all.

I'm not sure who's providing comfort to whom. I know I'm certainly more at peace sitting by his hospital bed that I would be downstairs in the waiting room. It's just me and him tonight.

Some of my fondest, most cherished memories are of me and him, late at night or early in the morning, just the two of us. As men, we were always out-numbered in the family. When the women-folk were asleep, we weren't. It was our own little world for just a little while.

I don't know if this will be our last night sitting up or not. Regardless, I'm excactly where I want to be: in that little world that only Daddy and I can make.

Maybe it's more like old times than I thought.

Postscript:

That was our last night sitting up together. At one point, I grabbed onto his hand and told him that I knew that somewhere, somehow he could hear me. He squeezed my hand ever so gently. That was his last communication with anyone. He died later that day. Insomnia served me well that time.