I hate February. It is the most dismal of times. White-gray skies and cold are its only features. Even its teasing of springtime portents are a ruse. February is the harbinger of death. I know this is true because on a cold gray mid-February day, seven years ago, came the news of my father's terminal illness.

We had suspected for some time that what ever was wrong with Dad was not something curable. He had always maintained an active life even into his seventies but this winter had hit him pretty hard. A cough that wouldn't go away, followed by fatigue so sever he wouldn't or couldn't dress for the day. Eventually he had to be hospitalized and the tests confirmed our worst and our unspoken fear. Cancer. The diagnoses came too late for any type of treatment to have effect. There was nothing to do but bring him home and wait for the inevitable.

When Dad first came home there was an air of denial surrounding everyone whom came to visit him. They talked to him as if he would be around forever; wished him well when they departed and if anyone ever gave him the chance to talk about the finality of his life I never knew it. Good-bye shouldn't be so hard to say, but it often is impossible.

February gave way to March and then April came with its promise of new life. I suppose everyone feels the irony at times like that. We sit by and hopelessly watch the life ebb from someone we love while the seasons turn and we can do nothing to stop either from completing its destiny. As my dad withered and faded inside the house, the lawn turned green, the trees leafed to fullness and the tulips sprang forth as though all was exactly as it should be. There is no fairness in death. Except that it comes to all of us.

I spoke with my mother often during the final weeks of dad's life. She talked endlessly about her frustration and fatigue. There were times when she angered me with her insensitive comments and there were times when I felt how tired she must be. Mom never said she was afraid to be alone with my dad but at times I could sense how unsure she was of how she might react when the end came. The truth about death is hidden somewhere between what we say and what we refuse to admit. I carry the guilt of silently hoping my dad's death would be quickened, thus sparing him and myself the agony of prolonged pain. In hindsight I wish I had asked for his recovery.

Death seems determine to rip apart any bond that exists between the living and the dying. On the last Sunday I was ever going to see my father alive while talking in generalities he mentioned how much he loved French fried potatoes and how he wished he could have a big platter of them now. Mom overheard his comment and began screaming about how she had cooked everything he had asked for and he didn't eat any of it. She screamed so loud and rambled for so long that I was embarrassed for my father and myself. He looked away from my eyes but not before I saw the hint of tears welling up in the corners of what once were the greenest eyes I'd ever seen. At that moment I hated my mother. I hated her for making me pity my father. I hated her for being mean and spiteful. Mostly though I hated myself. It would have been a simple thing for me to fix my dad French fried potatoes. I could have jumped right up and told mom I knew how tired she must be and even if dad didn't or couldn't eat them I'd fix them for him. I could have told mom to go sit down and rest. Or I could have told her dad was just talking about things he liked to eat. I could have done a million things differently than I did. Sadly all I did was run from my emotions. As Mom was still yelling and Dad was trying to conceal his hurt I made some lame excuse for leaving and bolted.

During my drive home I thought of how Mom had made my visit with Dad so depressing. The picture of Dad's smiling face turning so quickly to one of hurt and humiliation wouldn't leave my mind. Why had she screamed out at him? So Dad wanted some fried potatoes, big deal. Mom could have said no or maybe later. Instead she had lashed out at him with such venom that he cringed at her onslaught, as did I. Why didn't I stand up to Mom? Would it have been so hard for me to intervene? My father was dying and all he had asked for was some lousy potatoes. He hadn't even asked for anyone to fix them. We were just talking about foods we enjoyed. The worst criminals condemned to death can request a last meal and get it. Where is the justice in refusing my father a platter of French fried potatoes? I couldn't stop the tears as they flowed from my eyes.

I opened the door to the home I shared with my husband and daughter, hoping to get in the bathroom before they could ask any questions. Luckily my husband was on the telephone and he barely glanced my way as I came through the kitchen. I splashed cold water on my face and tried my best to conceal the redness the crying had created in my eyes. When I finally opened the door my husband was standing on the other side, waiting for me to come out. He pulled me gently into his arms and whispered how much he loved me and how sorry he was to have to tell me my father had just passed away.

As my husband drove us back to my parent's house I kept thinking about how I had just left Dad, alive, not more than thirty minutes past. One of the ironies of death is even when you are expecting it, it comes as a surprise.

Seven years have passed since we buried Dad. I've only just begun to forgive Mom for her final outburst during my last talk with him. I've been less forgiving of myself. Each day I'm taunted by my own thoughts. How could I have left Dad knowing he had a want? What was wrong with me to have not done something? Whenever I'm at a restaurant and hear children asking their parents for fries to go with their hamburgers I fight not to interfere. I want to say let them have fries. I'd offer to pay for them myself, too. But that would call for some kind of explanation and I'm not ready to share this with strangers.

There will be a time for an explanation when I am visited by the only principle of fairness death observes. If those gates of Heaven are really there and a short pause exists while the records are reviewed, I'll tell my story then. Before I am judged, I'll say, would it be too much to ask if I might have time to prepare a platter of French fried potatoes? And if you could would you have them delivered to my father? I know he is here and he'll know who sent them. If you could allow me this small favor I think I'll be all right no matter where I might go from here.

I hate February...it is the most dismal of times.