I hadn\u2019t seen my dad in five years when my sister texted me that he had fallen at home. After I had my first child, the childhood abuse I had previously overlooked to keep the peace suddenly became incomprehensible, and I chose to become estranged from him.<\/p>\n
But when I found out he was dying, I knew time was running out to reconcile. I didn\u2019t want to regret missing it.<\/p>\n
On my first visit to see him, I brought flowers and kneeled by his bedside. He was thin, jaundiced and bedridden. His fine hair was snowy and delicate over his scalp, his movie star cheekbones more prominent than ever. His brown eyes still looked like mine.<\/p>\n
But he didn\u2019t recognise me. He stared at me and looked away repeatedly, his expression bewildered and hurt.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs it OK that I\u2019m here, or would you prefer I go?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can stay. I\u2019m just surprised. It\u2019s been a long time.\u201d There was grief and accusation in his voice.<\/p>\n
I wouldn\u2019t apologise for the estrangement. He wouldn\u2019t apologise for the abuse. We wouldn\u2019t talk about the past when death was so close.<\/p>\n
When I left, I kissed his forehead and promised I\u2019d be back.<\/p>\n
A few weeks later, I signed up to be an early literacy volunteer, teaching young children to read. Once a week, I spent an hour with the students during their lunch break, reviewing the alphabet and helping them sound out words while they ate orange slices and whole wheat pizza.<\/p>\n
Then I would spend an hour with my dad at the healthcare facility where he lived for his last five months. We would share a few minutes of small talk, I would feed him small bites of baked fish or tater tots, and we\u2019d watch TV.<\/p>\n
The two things were connected. My father\u2019s side of the family is full of educators. My dad was a professor for more than 50 years. He\u2019s the reason I have post-traumatic stress disorder, but he\u2019s also the reason I love literature, travel, art, food and languages. His mother \u2013 my namesake \u2013 was once a missionary-teacher who rode on horseback four miles every day to reach her students.<\/p>\n
\u201cTeaching is a spiritual thing,\u201d my dad said.<\/p>\n
I thought volunteering to help children read would connect me to my dad and our family as he was dying. The kids were at the beginning of their lives and education, while my father, the professor, was coming to the end of his.<\/p>\n
I volunteered on Mondays. Usually, I visited my father at the end of the week. My weeks were measured in the bookends of life.<\/p>\n
There were six schools where I could volunteer \u2013 all underfunded and with low reading test scores. I chose the one closest to my childhood home, my dad\u2019s house. I was a kindergartener in that neighbourhood the first time my dad squeezed my wrists so hard that bruises encircled them for weeks.<\/p>\n