Sit Here

May 27th, 2014

I sit here after a long weekend with my man. I met extended family of his, such lovely people, such good friends to him. But now, I sit here with my dad, a WWII bomber pilot, watching war programs on tv. It’s Memorial Day, well sort of. The real Memorial Day is later this week. This is the Monday one that kick starts the summer, unofficially of course, in that federal way that many Monday holidays are now.

My dad is just stubborn enough to outlive his folks: his dad at 104, then seven years later, his mom at 105. My step-mom just passed and I know he misses her terribly. After thirty-five years, his broken heart has yet to grasp a life without her.

I sit here, listening to his sorrow as he talks about her, talks about our lives together; the road trips, the beach houses, Yellowstone, the house we grew up in. Dad says he forgets stuff, due to his ninety-four years of living. Dad says he raised pigeons on Milan Avenue, South Pasadena. I love little stories like that. I know he’s forgetting things and it makes my heart stop. I don’t want him to forget me. Our road trips, our home, our lives together. I don’t want him to forget that we fought, made up, fought again, made up way better than that.

So I sit here hoping for more stories, waiting for more baseball war stories and more stories.

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