He lay, propped up, in a hospital bed. He was very weak, and his eyes were closed. My sister told him I was there. He started crying. He had always been stoic, but he got very emotional near the end.
I said good morning, kissed him on the head, held his hand and asked him if there was anything he needed.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Some Italian bread dipped in hot, black coffee."
This was a bit surprising because my father wasn't eating much at that point. But I wanted to honor his wish, so I went out to buy a loaf of Italian bread and a cup of Starbucks.
When I got back, my father was ready to eat. However, he could no longer feed himself, so I broke the bread into small pieces, dipped them into the coffee and fed him. He really loved that coffee-soaked bread. He ate a good amount of it.
My father ate Italian bread as a boy. His grandfather, an Italian immigrant, was a baker. I imagine he provided fresh bread for his family.
The experience of feeding my father that bread felt like communion — between my father, the dying man, and my father, the boy, and between the two of us. It was a sacred moment.