My dad died one year ago today. The oncologist predicted that he would have six to eight months; he had seven days.
The last week moved at a frantic pace as Dad moved to a nursing home. We tried unsuccessfully to help settle him in, but no one could ever make my dad do anything he did not want to.
Dad wanted: to say goodbye to his brother; and to leave the nursing home and return home. We almost, by two days, accomplished the first and, by four days, accomplished the second. Those regrets will always be with me.
If I were not 500 miles away, today I would have cleaned up his headstone again. Dad liked to look sharp.