Today was 30 years since my father died. Half my life, now.
We were living in Vancouver when he was hospitalised. My sister called to tell me (in the middle of the night, Pacific time), and when I asked if I needed to come home, at first she said no — but then shortly after she said yes. In the morning I called airlines, and was able to get a flight with British Airways to Oslo — via London — the following day.
When I arrived at Oslo Airport (at the time, in Fornebu just west of Oslo), my mother and my siblings were waiting for me. My mother hugged me and told me I was too late.
He died about an hour and half before my plane landed.
I still remember that moment, that greeting, as if it was yesterday.
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