My father, at one point, imagined himself on a Greek island. “Ouzo!” He’d offer from his hospital bed.

He was an avid fisherman and his last words were, distinctly, “Big fish.”

Yet, he was mostly unconscious for his last day. I spent time talking with him as he slept, massaging his hands and feet. Later we had a party for him and played music. Around 10 at night he began to die (the breathing changes). At the very end he opened his eyes, looked at my mother, sister and me, and passed.

It was a beautiful death.