I lean forward and hold his head in my hands. I slowly start to sing his favourite hymn:
“I am a child of God,
And he has sent me here,
Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear.”
Tears trickle down his face.
“It’s ok, Dad. You are safe. Don’t be frightened,” I whisper.
His breathing is now rattled, Cheyne–Stokes irregular.
The seconds between his breaths become longer, each one more earnest than the last.
I cuddle him. I kiss him on the forehead and whisper, “I love you.”
And then it all stops.
He has gone.