The last thing I said to my father was that I'd call him on Sunday. He died on Saturday.

I've done a lot of work with this. I know intellectually that there was no way to know, that the conversation on Friday was ordinary because it was ordinary, that expecting every goodbye to feel final would be a way of living I couldn't sustain and wouldn't want. I know all of this. And I still can't stop thinking about what I said.

The call lasted four minutes and twelve seconds. I know this from my phone records, which I looked up later in a state I can't entirely justify. We talked about the weather and about a thing I was dealing with at work. He was interested. He asked two follow-up questions. I answered them quickly because I was busy doing something else. I don't remember what. Some task that I have no memory of completing. My hands were doing something while my father asked his last questions and I answered efficiently.

I've been thinking about the four minutes differently lately. Not with guilt - which I've worked through - but with something closer to tenderness. He was happy on that call. The questions were real questions. He was paying attention. One of us was entirely present. It wasn't me. But the call was good. The call was, in its small ordinary way, a good call.

I'm glad one of us was there. I'm learning to accept that it was enough.

When did you last give your full attention to someone you love? Do you know what the last thing you said to someone was, before they were gone?