The Room Where My Father Died Changed How I See Architecture

Life had taught me that architecture was the business of making and designing structures. But my father showed me that architecture is brought to life through the stories we tell ourselves, and in the memories of the consequential acts that take place in and around the buildings we share.

In this way, architecture becomes more verb than noun as it shapes us. Maybe this is why my mother later said, all things considered, that my father had “built a beautiful death.” He had also built a beautiful life.

On his last day, May 17, 2007, he breathed to my mother, “You are surrounded by your closest friends. You will be taken care of.” He then fell into a sleepy fog in his chair, in and out of consciousness.

The friends moved him to his bed, and a few hours later he passed. When, 17 years later, I visited this home and sat in that chair, I wondered about his death. Was the space where he died a form of self-medication?