“Hey, Dad. Tell me about Mom.” Those were words I wish I’d spoken sooner. It was April 2021, and my mother passed away the July before, two days before my dad’s birthday. My older sister and I had been taking full-time shifts, caring for both of them since November 2019, when it became clear that they weren’t able to live independently any longer.

Of course, COVID came along shortly thereafter and added an extra layer of improbability to this new, tender process of caregiving for both parents simultaneously. My mom’s dementia made her understanding of all that was going on in the world, and for that matter, in her own house, quite hazy at times. Dad, though, was sharp as a tack, his body failing while his fertile mind consumed chapters of his beloved book collection each day.

This was the house I’d grown up in, so it was a bittersweet homecoming to again be sleeping on the sofa that I’d watched M*A*S*H and The Carol Burnett Show on as a kid, laughing along with my parents, who now had little cheer left to offer. Between the two of them being in at-home hospice and the pandemic, everything had a touch of surreality to it. One could, perhaps, be excused for not trusting one’s instincts in such situations.

When Mom passed, my instinct was to follow my dad’s lead. He spoke of regrets right up to her funeral service, which was confined to a total of ten people in an outdoor setting instead of the larger church memorial they’d planned when the time came. There were a lot of tears in the days following her death. Then, nothing.

Dad did his best to do what children of The Great Depression often did, which was to put on a brave face and not let their kids see them struggling. As it was, he was shakily using a walker and often falling into diabetic comas from mismanagement of his insulin. It’s scary for parent and child alike when vulnerability becomes inevitability.

And so, because he was quite hard of hearing and not one to bring up uncomfortable subjects, I opted to let him steer the ship. If he wanted to talk about Mom, he’d say so, right? But deep inside, I knew better. He didn’t want to upset my sister and me. He didn’t want to bring pain to the surface when remaining stoic was already his default mode. But beneath that silence was a husband of 70+ years, mourning his love of a lifetime.

It took me months, sadly, to come around to the courage to offer him a chance to open up. One evening, as an Atlanta Braves game was about to begin on TV, I muted the sound and sat next to Dad. “Dad... Tell me about Mom,” I said. “What was life like before Susan and I came along?”

He seemed surprised, even stunned, but he’d wrestled with his grief enough by then to maintain composure as he unfolded a story about their early days of marriage, their first house and what being a newlywed was like in the era of Harry S. Truman and Frank Sinatra.

As Braves games were another family anchor and possibly my mom’s favorite pastime in her later years, those first games of the 2021 season became sparks for further conversations about Mom, even if only for a moment during commercial breaks. It felt as if an intangible weight had been lifted, and I was offering Dad—and myself—some oxygen.

Then, a new weight sank down as a couple of weeks later, Dad began his final decline, slipping into long stretches of sleep and finally easing into peace on May 3, 2021, ten months to the day that Mom transitioned.

Dad’s final life lesson for me was gentle yet mercurial. Allowing those who are grieving to tell their stories—to keep their loved one alive through words and memories—is perhaps the greatest comfort that can be offered. I’m grateful I found the courage to ask that simple yet so difficult question, even if it took months to summon it. I’m grateful to know more about Mom. ❧

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Tommy Housworth is a professional writer and creative director for corporate projects. He’s a certified mindfulness instructor, the author of two collections of short stories and he publishes on Substack.