Today is the anniversary of my Dad's death. He died in 1985 at the age of 67 -- too young, too soon to say goodbye. I still miss him. I still ask him to forgive me for not being a better daughter. I was with him when he died. In fact, at least four of his ten children were in the house at the time and several grandchildren. My sister Peggy and I were with Daddy when he died. He was sitting in a chair leaning against the bed and we were stroking his back and talking quietly when we realized he wasn't breathing. The blood had already begun to pool at the pressure point on his forehead.
