You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Dad’ category.

Today would have been my Dads 74th birthday.  Hard to believe another year gone by.  We will go up to the cematery and remove the Christmas wreath we placed there.  I don’t know what we’ll replace it with yet.  

We used Dad’s pickup to go to the wrestling meet yesterday and that was a bit strange.  

We are doing okay.  All of us.  

Life goes on and sometimes that feels like a betrayal.  

Life goes on and we must live while we can.

Advertisements

Dad’s birthday is coming up.  January 18th.  I can’t believe it going to be his second birthday gone.  Time is passing so quickly.  

Mark drove Dad’s pick up around a few days and it seemed weird to see it parked in our driveway.  I caught myself glancing up at it and remembering Dad sitting out there, cigarette in hand, waiting for the boys to come out, waiting for us to see him and come outside and visit with him, all the while smoking one of his “little friends“.   

In reality when I think of Dad, I think of cigarettes.  The two go hand in hand.  The smell, the sight, I can’t think of him without those damn cancer sticks.

Last year at this time we were all waiting.

For the shoe to drop.  The final shoe.  Dad was so sick.  He was in the final throes.  Everyday another slipping away of something.  The body betrays you, the mind.  The importance of “things” becomes ridiculous in proportion to the importance of moments.

snapshot:  Dad, in a wheelchair in the cool early morning air, a coffee cup beside him, a cigarette in his mouth.  He liked to listen to the birds, enjoy a coffee and smoke in the morning.

snapshot:  Dad sitting in my little orange bug as we went for a ride through town, to our house, where he gazed at the gaily decorated driveway where we were holding my daughters graduation party.  He would spend the night at home, with my Uncle “babysitting” so my Mom could attend the graduation and a few minutes of the reception.

snapshot:  Mark carrying Dad and placing him into our vehicle so we could take him to the hospital for a “treatment”.

snapshot:  Dad, gone, quiet, still in the hospital bed, my mothers face, stricken, Dad is gone