Waiting

My dad is entering the final stage of his life. No one has said that to me, but I know it's true.

He's not even really himself anymore, and hasn't been for a while. He's back in the hospital, and I'm not sure he's gonna make it home again. Maybe. H
e's been surprising us for almost two years. But somehow this time is different.

Yes, I'm sad. Not sad for the letting go because at this point there's not a hell of a lot of dignity or meaning for him or for those who love him. Except, of course, doing everything possible so he's comfortable and cared for. I'm more than a thousand miles away, so there's not much real world I can do to take care of him. But I don't want to just be sad. I want to remember.

So, I'm kind of gliding through this day and it's tasks and holding memories. Like mixing homemade root beer in a vat so deep I was up to my elbow stirring with a long wooden paddle- I must have been about five. And the stories he told by sons about each individual lure in his tackle box. And the way he loved our crazy dog who ran away every chance she got. And his love of being busy and just having things to do, even if it was just going to the dollar store and having coffee at the local meeting spot.

I'm not sure what comes next. But it feels like waiting right now. And I'm OK with that. I'll wait. I'll wait.

Amen.