Last Hug
Catherine DeNardo
Image by Annie Spratt
The last time I saw my dad was five weeks before he died of bronchoalveolar carcinoma and we stood among the shoes and suitcases in the entryway of my parents’ second-floor flat in England. He in dark green tracksuit bottoms with a V-neck white undershirt tucked into the waistband and pool slide sandals with socks, me already in my jacket with a carry-on bag slung over one shoulder. “OK, see you soon,” I said. For some reason, I gave him the kind of hug you give on a Tuesday when you’ll get together on a Thursday.
One night some months after my dad died and while still distracted with grief, I tucked my daughter, Francesca, into bed. I found the bedtime routine taxing but nevertheless read chapter three, talked about the morrow, sang ‘Bim Bam, Biri Biri Bam,’ nestled Bunny into the crook of her arm, and gave her a hug. I stood up and walked towards the bedroom door but as my hand reached for the handle she called me back, “Can I have another hug?” she asked.
I inhaled deeply before responding, “OK, but this is the last hug,” I warned.
As I wrapped my arms around her, she said, “Mama, there’s no such thing as a last hug.”
Catherine DeNardo
Catherine DeNardo is a biologist and freelance editor and writer. Her writing has been published in Outside magazine's Long Reads, Outside magazine's Travel Essays, and Nautilus magazine. In 2021 she won Nowhere magazine’s Spring Travel Writing Prize. She lives in Seattle, Washington.