A Good Way To Die

It's been nearly two years since my father died. And I have two main observations. One is simple and the other less so. I'll start with the less so.

His voice keeps coming to me – clear as day. Almost as if he were in the room with me. It can be quite startling. I've wondered a little teeny bit about my sanity. Although I feel sure that I'm quite sane. (Gawd, isn't that what mad people say?)
I think the answer to my hearing his voice so often and so vividly is that Dad spent so much time talking to me. Although he isn't here to speak to me himself I still have a life-time of commentary on a kind of pre-recorded loop in my subconscious. I have him on shuffle. Certain situations act as a trigger and 'poof '– there he is with an aside or opinion. 
It's rather wonderful. He told me he was proud of me earlier today. I haven't done much that merits pride recently but it was nice to hear. It was nice to hear his voice. I look forward to these interjections. Some of them are funny.

The more straight-forward observation is that I believe he died well. Not that there is a right or wrong way – but that he was lucky enough to be able to demonstrate a half-decent exit. 
On a visit to see him with my brother, during one of his spells in a hospice, he looked rather serious. I could tell he'd been ruminating something. I was a little nervous as to what this serious something might be. He leaned over from his bed – to make sure he had our attention and that we'd hear every word – and told us that he wasn't afraid to die. He said that he would miss us both when he was gone – but that for himself he felt no fear. That simple thing, telling us that he wasn't afraid, while hard to hear, has been one of the most beautiful things. I’ve clung to it throughout all the stages of my grief for the loss of him.
I should say now – because his voice just popped into my head and asked me to – that he had plenty of fore-warning of his imminent death. He had a bit of time to think about it and come to terms with it.
But, telling me that he wasn’t afraid was a great kindness and permission. Perhaps counter-intuitively, it has made me value life even more. I think the last lesson he offered me was me how to die well. And not to waste good time fearing my own.
 
Raising a glass to you dear old Pa Greaves.