I would like to express my sincere appreciation to Cathy, Mr. Joe Anderson and the "Some Call It Heaven...Mr. William Calls it Home" web site for this very beautiful and touching gift.

I will never forget the early morning hours of August 30, 1999.  At 2:20 am, my telephone begin to ring.  My husband went downstairs to answer the phone.  A minute later, he handed me the telephone, a solemn look on his face.  My mother's hysterical voice floated over the wire.  "It's dad.  I think he's dead.  He's not moving and I don't think he's breathing."
I closed my eyes.  "Calm down, momma.  I'm sure he's fine.  Give him his heart medication and I'll be there in twenty minutes."
I was shaking when I hung up the phone.  I ran around in circles, trying to find my clothes, not really seeing anything.  I have no idea what I threw on.  My husband took charge of getting the boys ready to go.  Within minutes, we were on our way.
We made it to mother's in record time.  The car had barely stopped when I was out the door and running across the yard.
Someone grabbed my shoulders.  "I'm sorry," was all the voice said.
"No!" I screamed.  I began sobbing against the man's chest.
A moment later, I looked up and saw his face.  Tom.  Tom lived down the hill.  I grew up with his boys.
"I need to see my dad," I said.
He nodded in understanding, his hands loosening his grip on me.
I walked slowly toward the house, wondering what I would see when I entered that door.
The door opened.  My mother and my sister sat on the couch, tears streaming down their faces.  Sorrow and Despair showed in every line of their faces.  I hugged my mother.  "It's true, isn't it?"
She nodded and began sobbing harder.
At that moment, the paramedics came out of the bedroom.  Their faces showed the truth.  My father was dead.
Christy, my youngest sister, began to scream hysterically.  "Why couldn't I save him?"  She cried.  "I tried and I tried.  Why couldn't I save him?"
I later learned that Christy had performed C.P.R. until the paramedics arrived.  Twice she brought him back, only to lose him again.  Then my father's tongue began to swell and turn black.
My father had a massive heart attack.  There was nothing anyone could do.
Finally, we were allowed to walk back the hall.  My Uncle John was there by then.  The bedroom door hung open.  I peered inside.  My father lay on the floor beside the bed, wearing his favorite gray sweatshirt and pants.  I took comfort in the almost surreal smile on his face.  He looked contented.  I tried to go to him, but Uncle John held me back.  I tried to pull away.  I wanted to be near Dad.
A moment later, we were ushered back down the hall, away from the bedroom.
The rest of the morning seemed to go by in a blur.  We stood on the porch as the ambulance took my father away.  I remember the Director of the Funeral Home arriving at the house later that morning, but I have no recollection of anything that was said.
Throughout everything, I felt as though I was walking through a dream and that at any moment, I would wake up and everything would be fine.  Unfortunately, I didn't wake up.
I stood beside my mother and my sisters at the Funeral Home, barely registering all of the faces that passed before me, friends and family of my father's.  I have no idea who all attended, but I know it was a lot.  My father was friend to everyone and enemy to none.  He often gave his last penny to help someone.
The Funeral Director felt that we should not go to the cemetery after the service.  We were having a very hard time dealing with our grief.  I doubt any of us could have managed to get through seeing our father being lowered into the cold, hard ground.
The days and weeks that followed were the most horrible I had ever lived through.
It has now been nearly three years since my father's death, although it feels like it was just yesterday.  I keep telling myself that someday I'll see my father again; in Heaven and someday we'll stand beside him, a family once again.
Someday...