Dad died around midnight on March 16. Twelve hours later I was carrying boxes containing the last of his effects from his stay in assisted living. Those effects included towels, washcloths, a brand new, unused comforter, and assorted hospice care items that assisted living didn’t want but I couldn’t bear to throw away.

It was a dry and bright afternoon as I approached my car parked alongside a Thai restaurant. I looked toward the restaurant’s back parking lot and noticed in a far corner a homeless person hunched over some type of jury-rigged piece of portable luggage. I could not see the person’s face.

A great notion occurred. They seem to manifest a lot when it comes to helping homeless people.

I placed the boxes in the car, dug through one, and fished out a package of sterile wipes. I walked toward the homeless person and called out, “Hey, I think I have something you might be able to use.”

The person raised their head. It was a woman in her 30s, red hair, black eye shadow, black lipstick, big smile. I walked closer and recognized her from the neighborhood. I had never seen her addled. She was always alone.

“My Dad just passed away in assisted living” I said, “and I have something you might be able to use, sterile wipes.”

“Oh that would be great,” she said. “They come in handy.”

I handed over the package and saw among her possessions a book about beginning a blog, doubtless published from blogging’s 2005-08 heyday.

“Are you going to start blogging?” I said.

“I found it, started reading, and thought I might start.”

“People seem to prefer podcasts these days.”

“They seem too complicated.”

“Yes.”

“I’m really sorry about your dad.”

“It’s a relief. He was in hospice and struggling. He’s at rest now.”

“Thank you for helping me.”

I said goodbye and returned to assisted living to fetch the last load, a laundry hamper full of clean stuff ready for Goodwill. When I approached the car, the homeless woman had moved closer to the restaurant and was sorting her gear, prepping for transportation.

“Hey,” I said, “could you use a comforter, brand new? My Dad never used it.”

“Sure,” she said, “all my bedding got stolen last night.”

I set down the hamper and produced the comforter.

“Thank you,” she said.

“How about a towel and washcloth?”

I was rolling. I started feeling giddy.

“That would be great,” she said. “Thank you.”

“And how about another packages of sterile wipes?”

“Okay.”

It was then I noticed she had incredibly large eyes.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Amber.”

“I’m Matt.”

As Amber started packing up Dad’s final gifts, I went to my car and retrieved a copy of the Old Crow Book Club.

“I wrote this book about the homeless in the neighborhood,” I said. “You might find it interesting.”

She took it from me and said, “Oh, I had this and started reading it but it was stolen. Thank you, I wanted to finish it.”

“You take care,” I said.

“I will, and again, I’m sorry about your dad.”

“He would have loved knowing you got some of his things.”

My father, Karl Love, passed away just before midnight on March 16. I was not there. I received the call from the hospice team and stayed up rest of the night. In the morning, still dark, I took Elmer the husky for a walk and realized it was my first walk of my life where my father was not alive.

It was an honor to take care of him these past 4 ½ years, but now a new chapter begins and I really have no idea what direction my life will take. All will unfold.

I could write a book about my father, and perhaps another one about our relationship. I want to share one brief anecdote about us from my youth. My parents were separated but Dad would come over once or twice a month to our home in Oregon City, in the spring, to help me with the yard work, which was considerable because the house sat on a half acre of lawn to mow and many deciduous trees that dropped thousands of leaves. I was ten or eleven at the time, and Dad would always teach me vocabulary when we were raking or weeding side by side. Tex the beagle was always out there with us.

One vocabulary word stands out—alacrity—anoun meaning doing something with speed and eagerness. He defined it for me, used it in a sentence related to yard work, and then modeled how to perform yard work with alacrity.

That word has stayed with me all my life. I try to perform every task, writing, publishing, home maintenance, legal affairs, communicating in personal relationships, and many others, with alacrity. The opposite is procrastination, indifference and flaking.

Alacrity does not mean doing something so hurried that the task ends up being rushed and slipshod. It means doing something with dispatch, efficiency and feeling damn good about it.

I will see to the disposal of his estate with alacrity, as he would have wanted.

I taught the word to my students and I wonder if any of them remember it.

Dad is pictured here as a 20-year-old Marine serving in the Korean War. He told me he was always standing out during his tour for the alacrity of carrying out orders, some of them dangerous or unpleasant or totally menial.

As I begin this new stage, I will continue to perform with alacrity in all things.

Rest in peace Dad. No need for alacrity where you are or what you are anymore.

Traces of snow remained on the path in the park that parallels the creek, the very creek home to a magisterial beaver lodge that keep growing larger by the day.

It was 6:30 in the morning and Elmer the husky and I were taking our customary walk to begin the day.

My mind was still sifting through a story I’d read the night before that reported DOGE had cut the funding to a half-century old federal program that funds medical care for the Vietnamese people who suffered birth defects from the US military’s spraying of Agent Orange during the Vietnam War.

That news really got to me. How much lower can this nation sink? A lot, I think. Maybe there is no bottom anymore.

We passed a homeless man wearing a backpack. We said nothing to each other. I have often thought the bottom of contemporary American social and political and spiritual life is our nationwide and worsening crisis of homelessness. It’s all around us, staring us in the collective face and there is no end in sight in my lifetime. Yes, I still think that is our bottom but we seem to be digging deeper.

Elmer stopped to sniff. I heard a strange whittling/crunching sound coming from the creek, a sound I had never heard before.

I moved closer to the fence that protects the riparian area and saw a large blob of brown on the bank. What?

I bent down to inspect and stared straight into the face of a bucktoothed beaver who was snoozing away. Incredible!

Then I heard the strange sound again coming from a few yards upstream. I walked that way with Elmer and looked down to the water and beheld a beaver nibbling on a tiny stick of willow and producing that strange sound.

Double beavers!

I started singing the moment’s praises to Elmer. I looked around to see if there was anyone else around. No.

I watched the nibbling beaver for a few more seconds and then Elmer led the way home. For the moment, I was uplifted and not thinking about my nation’s bottom.

I am typing this on my trusty and ancient word processor as my father lays dying ten feet away in his bed. Or is it lies? He knew how to conjugate that tricky verb better than anyone I ever knew.

He’s closing in on two weeks in hospice. He can no longer communicate. I wish it would end quickly for him.

I brought a daffodil from the yard to decorate the room. He loved this flower and could recite “Daffodils” by Wordsworth.

He wanted Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” read at his service. That’s it. No eulogy, no testimonials. Just like he preached—brevity above all else.

He has received outstanding care from the hospice team and care giving staff at the assisted living center. My heart breaks for those seniors who can’t afford this.

We simply don’t understand death in this culture. We are immature and superstitious about it.

Lots to do after he passes. But it will all get done.

Lots of questions about this looming new chapter in my life. They will all get answered in one way or another.

To think he was born during Herbert Hoover’s last year as President.

He’s got a Bible on the bookshelf. He’s also got several volumes of poetry. In the end, poetry mattered a lot more.

He just received another dose of morphine and a drug described to me as “powered bourbon.”

I wish I could be at his side at the end, but that seems unlikely. This isn’t a television show.

Elmer and I keep walking miles and miles. I barely read the news. I am reading Orwell and a book about the history of haikus.

I feel so lucky that my extended family has all come together in this moment. No one is estranged. No one wants anything.

Rain falls outside. I can hear traffic and the hum of the heater and the ticking of a clock. It’s just past nine in the morning.