“What’s important in your life, and why is it important?” I said, as
my father folded a pillow on the sofa, laid his head on it and drew his
final breath.

On the Monday morning that my father died, somewhere in Denmark,
I was teaching an online university class, somewhere in Spain. Afterwards,
I lay down on my bed, drained of energy. I closed my eyes and checked
my breathing. It was agitated. My heart was beating too fast. Then it didn’t
beat at all. It was as if my heartbeat depended on my will. On whether I
wanted it to beat. Or not.

Read the rest of the essay in the Wilderness House Literary Review