He continued to refuse to take Tylenol and eventually slipped into a coma. I reluctantly accepted his decision. My fiercely independent father had reached the point where he no longer wanted to live a severely compromised life, so he forced me to back off.

ince my bride was working as a summer associate in a Washington, D.C. law firm, my best friend, Craig Poitier, had come east from California to help me care for my father.

One night, about two weeks after my father went into a coma, Craig and I were listening to gospel albums from the extensive collection of my deceased Cousin Charles. One of the songs we listened to was a favorite that we had played all the time when we were teenagers. The refrain of the song was:

"I'm goin' home on the mornin' train.
Yes, I'm goin' home on the mornin' train!
That evenin' train may be too late.
I'm goin' home on the mornin' train!"

We stayed up all night listening to gospel and talking, without realizing how much time had passed. Around 7 am, the phone rang. It was my father's attending physician on the ward. He told me, "Your father is close to death. If you want to see him alive, you'd better come at once."

We raced to the hospital. I quickly entered his room and walked over to his side. His forehead was cold, barely warm at all, and his breathing was shallow and labored. Sitting down, I clasped his hand between my hands and hung my head, trying to collect my thoughts.

After about 25 seconds, I looked up. He had stopped breathing. I felt his forehead; it was cold as ice.

He was gone.