A year ago today, I sat with my dad in hospice as he died. I’m still reeling. His breathing stopped slowly, then he was gone. We didn’t deserve him, but I’m thankful to have had him in my life.

When I spoke at his memorial a week later, I told everyone that I knew my dad loved my mom, my brother, and me not because he said it all the time (but he did) but because he showed it to us every day. He showed it with his time. That was his most precious gift.

He could make friends with anyone. He’d talk about the weather or cooking or history. He may not have known you, but he probably would have loved you.

He was really upset at the meanness he saw on CNN and in our politics today. I miss him so much but am glad he’s not watching all we’ve lost this last year. He was the kind of guy who cried at a commercial with a daughter hugging her dad. You know, real tough Arab guy.

He grew up in Amman but spent time in Syria, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Lebanon, and eventually the US. He arrived in the late 70s, went to cosmetology school with mostly New Jersey women, and learned English by watching cartoons.

He was an Arab, immigrant, and Muslim during a time those were deeply unpopular identities. He became an American citizen and had to learn our values. Thus he treasured them. He very much wanted to vote in 2020. He’d tell you to vote. He liked Booker’s message: radical love.

On the wall of his first bedroom in the US, he wrote the lyrics to Lennon’s “Imagine.” He loved the message. In retirement, he enjoyed painting - including this one inspired by a Beatles song whose lyrics he misremembered. (English *was* his second language.)

We’d call these language mixups “Dadisms.” Like when he called some of our neighbors “hilly-billies.” Or when he thought my sister in law who played softball as a kid was a “tommy boy.” Or when he complained about the heat and it not being “breathey.” (Makes sense, no?)

He loved my mom. She loves to tell the story about the time at the hospital when his new kidney hadn’t started working and we were all worried. He’d been in the hospital for weeks. Before my mom left one night, he asked, “What day is tomorrow?”

My mom said, “it’s Tuesday.” She was thinking, though, that he’d want to go home, or ask about how much longer he has to stay, or complain about how one more day of hospital food is intolerable. Instead he said, “Don’t forget: it’s garbage day.”

The days leading up to my dad’s death were garbage days. He was diagnosed with pneumonia, then infections, then a ventilator and blood transfusions, delirium. He lost 40 pounds in a few weeks. It was hell.

I can’t imagine what he’d say about people resisting face masks or crowds to avoid the suffering he endured before hospice. I’m glad he doesn’t have to see the selfishness.

My dad was Muslim. He believed in Paradise, and that he’s with friends and family now. It’s nice to imagine. When my parents married, the officiant read a poem by Khalil Gibran at their wedding. Jon and I did the same when we got married. But Gibran wrote about death too.

Including this passage I read at his memorial.

Here’s to Kamal Mahmoud Jarrah. I love to remember him young, healthy, happy. I wish all the same for you and yours. Here’s to my dad. (And call yours if you can.)