During this holiday break, I’ve been taking long walks in the afternoons with my sister. She moved to my town last year, after living in other states and countries for decades.

Inspired by the crisp winter air and the snowy landscape, we let our minds wander to places that normal conversation doesn’t usually touch. One day, we reminisced about Christmas trees from our childhood–how our parents were the only ones who placed the tree on top of a coffee table, probably to make it seem bigger than it really was.  Every December, the holder of stacks of magazines and an infrequently used celadon green ashtray transformed into the dais for Santa’s gifts.

Yesterday, we talked about our father’s last days in the hospital before succumbing to a year-long struggle with cancer. Our father died over thirty years ago. My family of origin has always been private with their feelings. For me and my siblings, things have gotten better as we’ve become adults and found more emotive spouses. But in the 70’s, when talking about dying and death was relegated to professionals inside hospitals and funeral homes, we just didn’t say much, even if we felt all sorts of things inside.

What a gift it is to have time with my sister now. Twelve years older, she had the perspective of an adult in knowing our dad. She was in her twenties when he died, and was my mom’s right hand woman and confidante in dealing with the details of a chronic illness and preparing for my father’s death.  I was 13 and knew him more as the strong authoritarian figure who withered away to skin and bones.

My sister gave me some flesh to put on the bones, along with a good dose of love. She told me that my father talked about taking me on a trip when he got well, suggesting that we go to Disneyland. She remembers him being so optimistic, when the prognosis was so bleak. I have no recollection of his words or his intent. I only knew that the way the household felt, we were in for a long battle with a disease called cancer.

I remember the impact of the illness on the family. She remembers the signs of his love for us.

I was old enough to stand vigil with my sister and mother during my father’s last days in the hospital, yet I stayed home with my two older brothers. Only adults took up their places in hospitals, watching over the last stages of dying, when this world and the next world intermingle.

My father, from his hospital bed, asked to see "the girl." My sister went to his bedside, thinking he was summoning her. He asked again to see "the girl," the other girl. My father was asking for me. I’m not sure what he would have said to me if I had been there. What I do know is that I was on his mind near the end.

In the last days of 2007, in the waning afternoon sunlight, my sister gives me the gift of my father’s love. Like a bottle with a missive transported throught the oceans of time, the message is clear and lucid.  I am truly grateful.