I used to have these fantasies about my father in his old age. That he would reach over a hundred years of age and the two of us would be alone in the large house I grew up in. I would push him in his wheelchair (my father walked until a very old age) to eat at the mahogany table that looked as old as him. At the table, I told my father about what was happening outside, beyond the land  the house sat on. He would respond with what he thought and we had these long conversations that did not go anywhere. We talked about all kinds of things as long as we always had a cup of coffee on the table.

My father did not speak again, as the stroke left him speechless and without the prospect of our aimless conversations. The news came to me on a Wednesday morning when it was snowing and everything was covered in white. The first flight home was the next day so I went to have coffee. The first of many coffees in silence.

There is no way of explaining what it feels like to take care of a father as if one were his father. Many say it is a blessing, but often it does not feel that way. An older man is not a baby. A baby has a future. With a baby one looks towards tomorrow, but with an old man one looks back. The only thing left is the memory of yesterday and in our case there was no way for him to talk about it.

There was no way my father could tell me of his past, about the life he had led, of before I was born and also of after. About which school he had attended and the friends he made there. About the days of rationing and war. About the friends he lost in it. About the days where he left home to find a better life. About when he found his wife. When he received the telegraph notifying him that his mother no longer inhabited this earth. Of when he undertook the care of his brothers. Of my youth before my memory became trustworthy. And especially how he never needed anybody's help.

Above all, my father was that kind of person. The one who always helped, but didn't let himself be helped. I guess it has something to do with being a provider. Maybe it's the masculinity calling within. Maybe it's what the bible commands. Or maybe it's about doing something with one's life on this earth where things seem to always get harder and never easier.

It was this attitude that made it difficult to take care of a man in his autumn. When we fed him, he turned his head away. When we talked to him, he shouted. A man like him doesn't let himself be taken care of.

The hardest part is not knowing what he thought. Making decisions for someone who cannot express what they think is practically an impossible task despite having known him for a lifetime.

Often, I would find him awake. Lost in his fantasies. Perhaps transported to a time past, or contemplating what the world would be when he was no longer part of it. Only he would know.

One morning I had to bathe him and he kept screaming. With the little strength he had left, he pushed away my hand that held the sponge. It was then that he saw me with his only good eye. We felt an intimacy that is rare for a son and his father once older. That intimacy that one shares in youth is lost. With his eye, he gave me a serious look of stubbornness that I responded to with a tired, pleading face. It seemed then that his eye could not maintain that facade and began to reveal the deep sadness he felt. The grief from the need for someone to take care of you. And of all the people who could do it, it being your son who bathes you. To become a burden to your child. The only thing I could answer when I felt his sadness was: It's okay dad, I want to.

The face that emerged then was the one he had until his last day. One of peace. He left us on a Wednesday, but it didn't snow. Since the world shared my sorrow, it rained.