The One I Couldn't Be There For

“The One I Couldn’t Be There For”

by David Lockett Jr.

I’ve sat beside death. I’ve felt its weight in hospital rooms and quiet living rooms. I’ve held trembling bodies, rubbed fading heads, whispered comfort into ears I hoped could still hear me.

I was there when my sister passed. I watched her leave this world. I witnessed her final gestures—like the time she made a face, annoyed with a nurse adjusting her breathing tube. She couldn’t speak anymore, but that face said, “stop messing with me.” That was her. Still present. Still fighting to be understood. And I was there, with her.

I was there for my dogs too. Peanut Butter, my sweet girl, was barely hanging on when I woke up early that morning. But her tail still wagged when I spoke. That small sign of joy—that recognition—it’s something I’ll never forget. Sunshine, ever the more complex soul, was afraid in her final hours. I held her close, felt her heart racing, and when she finally calmed, she’d occasionally sniff at my neck like she was checking, “You still with me?” I was.

Being there for them mattered. I know it gave them peace. I know my presence made the transition softer, lighter… even beautiful, in a heartbreaking way.

But my dad?

He died alone.

I didn’t live with him. Our connection wasn’t daily. I saw him at church, we talked, we loved each other—but I wasn’t there when he took his last breath. No one was.

And that thought… it haunts me.

Because I know how important it is to have someone beside you when the light begins to dim. I’ve seen how the smallest gesture—just being there—can ease the fear. Can bring calm. But my dad didn’t get that. No voice saying, “I’m here, Dad.” No hand holding his. No presence to anchor him in love as he passed.

It feels cruel.

Not just for him, but for me too. Because I would’ve been there. If I had known, if I had been closer, if life had allowed… I would’ve shown up. I would’ve done for him what I did for my sister, for my dogs. I would’ve stood in the fire again.

But I didn’t get that chance. And that’s a wound I carry.

Still, I believe in something beyond this life. And maybe, just maybe, in those final moments, when the room was still and the world faded, he wasn’t entirely alone. Maybe he thought of his mom. Maybe a memory, a prayer, a familiar voice from long ago reached him in the silence.

Maybe presence isn’t always physical.

Maybe love still found him.