That night, when Rosh Hashanah was over, I called my father. I asked him how he was feeling. He had given a sermon in shul, davened before the amud and blown the shofar.
I told him I wanted to come to see him.
“No” he said, “your place right now is with your wife and your son. I will see you tomorrow at the brit.”
He died that night.
At the brit the next morning, our baby son was given the name Ishai, after my father.