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“No!” he shouts. He looks in agony, as he collapses into a chair. I had just come back with two cups of coffee. We love coffee, my dad and I. Dark, hot and fresh coffee should awaken and comfort us at this late hour, I hoped. But now I hear his cry, his frustration, and his pain: coffee will not be enough.
I approach slowly, and very gently put the paper cups with the boiling coffee on a table. I lean close to him. “Are you all right?”
He turns to me, eyes wide with fear, and almost shouts into my face: “My phone broke! Look! It’s not working.” He’s pushing frantically on the buttons. “I dropped it on the floor, and it broke. Look, it’s not working!!!” He gets up and heads to the corridor. There are a few people sitting there. A woman is looking at me, as if saying, “What is the matter with him?” I reply with my eyes. “I wish he was stronger.”
I walk after him as he walks and seems to disregard anything in his way: nurses passing, a patient lying in his bed waiting to be admitted into the ward, a young doctor making his last rounds for today.
“Dad!” I cry. “Hold on!” He keeps on going. I rush over and grab his arm. He turns to me, but says nothing. He stands there, tired and sad. A man that has lost a battle.
“I’ll try to fix it.”
“Ok.”
We walk back to the waiting room and sit. The coffee is still warm. I have to figure out how to fix my dad’s shattered phone. When I finish, I will walk into the room where my mother lies sleeping, and say my last good-bye to her.