NeuroDivine

I kept vigil with my father through the long hours of Thursday night into Friday morning. The room was dim and still, the world reduced to breath, warmth, and the soft weight of his hand in mine. There was no need for many words. Just presence. Just staying.

When I spoke of the places that shaped him—Portrush, White Rocks, the Antrim fields, Slemish mountain, the rivers Bann, Braid, and Bush—something in him answered. His fingers tightened around mine, not in fear or confusion, but in recognition. A final conversation carried in touch rather than speech. A knowing that lived deeper than memory.

I stayed until the night had done its work. Until the vigil settled into that unmistakable sense of completion that doesn’t announce itself, but arrives gently, like a truth you suddenly realise you’ve been carrying for hours. And then I did the thing love sometimes requires but is rarely praised for: I left.

I travelled the 170 miles south for the treatment that keeps me alive. The road felt longer than usual, but it was the right road. Duty to him did not erase duty to myself. Love is not measured by how long you refuse to move, but by how faithfully you show up — and how wisely you know when you must step back.

I had kept vigil.
I had spoken the places of his life back to him.
I had felt his answering squeeze.
I had stayed as far as I could go.

Now others will keep watch.
Now the veil is thin enough for him to be held without me.
Now I honour him by honouring the life he gave me—including the part that must be tended, protected, kept going.

My duty was done.
My love is not done.
But love, too, must rest.

Author’s Note:
I wrote this after keeping vigil with my father through the night and then travelling home for the treatment that keeps me going. It’s a piece about presence, limits, and the quiet recognitions that remain even when words fall away. Thank you for holding space with me in these days. If you wish to read more reflections from this season, you’ll find them under recent vigil writings.