I vowed to hold both my parents' hands when they drew their last breath no matter the inconvenience to my life, and as things turned out, it was one of the best decisions I had ever made. It was something that's done with no thought of personal advantage, just something that would help another human being feel that he or she was not alone when their time came.

It was Halloween eve and dad was in his last hours, still conscious but having difficulty breathing. The nurses were dressed up in cute costumes, coming around with little baskets of candy in a holiday mood - a marked contrast to the situation Dad and I were facing. But I didn't say anything; this was not their problem.

One of the nurses was dressed in a devil's costume, which I thought was apropos considering what my father had been most of his life, but during the last ten years, after my mom came down with her disease, he had changed.

I had gotten to know his three roommates quite well, but this evening I had the curtains drawn around Dad's bed so they didn't have to watch him die. They had grown fond of my dad during the time he was there, and they understood, well enough, that they would soon be facing what he was facing. I sat beside my father and held his frail, bony hand; so old and veined, with bruised, pasty skin as thin as paper. Surely, my strong body would never come to this.

Death was immanent; all he could manage were shallow gasps as his breathing was now sporadic, with long intervals where he didn't breathe at all. This went on for quite awhile, and I was surprised when he managed to say something. I could barely hear him whisper, "I wish I could have done a few more good things in my life."

I tried to reconcile my own selfishness; not contacting my parents for years because of my resentment toward my father and the way he treated Mom. I wanted to say that I was sorry, but couldn't find it in my heart to express these simple words. That was the last thing he said, and with his lungs filling with fluid, he soon drew his last breath. Then I watched an artery beat in his neck for a long time, until it became still as well. "The only difference between life and death is the breath," I recalled the words that appeared in my meditation back in Boulder before Janet left for Amaravati.

I walked to the nurse's station where they were laughing and having a great time with the residents, and I didn't have the heart to bother them. What was the hurry? I waited until one of the nurses acknowledged me, and then told her that my dad had passed away. She brushed it off, saying that he will go through periods of feigning death well before he actually dies, but when she had time, she'd stop by.

About ten minutes later, she came in and checked his vitals. She was surprised to find him deceased, but remained business-like as she instructed me to leave for a few minutes while she prepared him for transport to the funeral home.

I looked for something to put his stuff in, finally borrowing a large garbage bag from an aide, and then went to dad's section of the closet in the small, four patient room. His roommate and best friend was lying next to the closet, but wouldn't look at me. He pretended to be asleep, but a telltale tear was running down his cheek. He liked my dad; maybe he liked me too.

I was emotional as well, as I put dad's few things in the bag, just some outdated checkered slacks, and a few faded shirts with worn collars and holey socks, I wanted to say something to his friend; I don't think that he had any family, at least nobody ever came to visit him, but I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just touched his shoulder, and walked away.

Only the undertaker and I, along with two graveyard workers and a backhoe, were at that small cemetery in the foothills where we laid Dad to rest. Nobody was there to say anything, and I wasn't sure what to do, so after the workers lowered the casket, I took a handful of dirt and threw it on the coffin. I don't know why; probably saw it in a movie or something... And that was my dad's life.

Spiritual seeds were sprouting from tiny cracks in the hard pavement of my controlled existence. It was those little interruptions-the accident, the illness, perhaps a death-that opened doors for me. Why couldn't I step through?

I recalled a monk in Thailand telling me about old age and death, that none can escape it unless they become enlightened, and that until we truly understand, we would travel in a circle of birth, old age, disease, and death forever, where our tears would fill the seas. My tears that day simply evaporated I guess, but perhaps they would make it back to their Source, that mighty ocean, someday. As I left the graveyard, I glanced back at the hole in the ground, and I wished my dad good luck in whatever situation his karma had in store for him. All in all, he was a good man.