Happy Birthday, Dad

Yesterday, April 13th, was my father's 89th birthday, and he is not here to celebrate it with me and the family.

I had to move my father, due to health issues, from his house on November 6th of last year. It killed me to do this. His health continued, unfortunately, to deteriorate. He did, finally, make it back to his own house for a week. He had to be transported back to the hospital on Saturday, February 7th; he couldn't walk or move. He passed away four days later, on Wednesday, February 11th.

He missed his 89th birthday by sixty-two days.

I drove by my father's home on Monday. It has a FOR SALE sign out front. This is tough for me to see. Dad purchased this house for $4,600 in 1946. I can remember him saying it cost him $34 a month and he didn't know how he'd possibly make the payments at the time.

Only one family has lived in this house -- mine -- for sixty-three years. It pains me to know, in some kind of strange and convoluted fashion that, when it sells, this is a place I will never be able to visit again, that will no longer be reassuring and a source of comfort. I will be forbidden from going there ever again.

After visiting the house, I drove to the gravesite of my parents. I brought a bouquet of flowers for their plaque. It was a beautiful day as you can see; mostly clear, blue skies. I shed tears nevertheless. At my advanced age, it is still very tough to take; in many ways I feel like an abandoned child. My rational mind tells me this is a preposterous thought.

A small propeller plane flew overhead just as I stood at the foot of my parents' grave. I looked up and waved.

"Hi Dad," I said. "Perfect timing."

BZ