Hollow sounds. Nothing. You think there’s something, but there is not; just a long night of silence. The kind of silence that makes you worry. Scares people, desparately wanting to hear anything; a dog barking, a cat fight in the alley, cars without mufflers, something to let you know there is life. But, there is not.

I watched him lie in bed. Tubes ran over and into his body. Folks gathered around; mom and dad, friends old and new. Prayers said, stories told. A bottle of wine passed from one hand to the next; a sort of last supper, a final communion.

The hospice nurse came to check on him. Brought him Italian lemon ice to suck on. His tongue turned yellow. He stuck it out for us all to see. His pillow was fluffed, sheets adjusted, a blanket over his feet. He thanked her. Even in pain, he was thankful.

I wanted to say goodbye but didn’t know how. I wanted to bring him one last great meal. But I knew he couldn’t digest it.

We talked about the great dinners he’d had with us. Traveling around the world using it as a smorgasbord. Greek food in Chicago, along with Jim’s Maxwell Street Polish. Chinese noodles as long as a leg in Manhattan. Street tacos in Mexico City. Pate in Paris. Indian food in Amsterdam. A simple bowl of chili in Cincinnati. Picking up the bill at the newspaper’s expense. Laughing as food and drink filled us.

His eyes opened, and closed. Falling in and out of it. I waved goodbye. I knew he was gone.