The Trans Woman and Her Loving Father

When my father died, a metaphorical train hit me. My world, the world stood still. It ceased to be. People were frozen in time. He had been sick with cancer. It ravaged his body like a plague of locusts. It ate him from the inside out. The sun was shining that day, and the view from the window was a lush green field. His last breath was set to the backdrop of an oasis. The closeness of life and death was a shock, like soldiers who play cards a mile from the front. Death is always close. He was encircled by love. His hands were held by my mother and I. My brother looked on. Other members of the family circled him as he took his dying breath. Words of approval, we told him not to hold on anymore. He fought so bravely. It was his time to rest. His hour of slumber had come. <a href="https://medium.com/the-narrative-arc/the-trans-woman-and-her-loving-father-83131f9333a5">Website</a>