Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's BĂȘte Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Fingers Hilarity, the 3-year-old, has been practicing his obstreperousness from time to time lately. He pulled a new one on my beloved spouse tonight about 5 or 10 years ahead of schedule.

Referring to a parental decision of hers, he said, "I won't do that when I have a child." My beloved spouse laughed.

Taking off tomorrow night red-eye back to the midwest to see my dad and the rest of my family. We usually don't go twice in a summer but we knew this summer we would be. His health has been declining quickly. This probably won't be my last trip to see him, but it looks like it might be my son's and my wife's. Occasionally I can persuade myself of death's inevitability, but how come it feels like the inevitable isn't supposed to apply to me? Or am I just whining? And if so, what's wrong with that? Does everybody feel that the inevitable doesn't apply to them?

He could bounce back, but it looks unlikely.

I struggle not to think of him in the past tense already. And I want more present. That's why we're going. For the present. The presence. The present tense, not some anticipated future past. To deal with it. To be there. Don't expect to be able to "do" anything, just be there.

Believe it or not, I'll miss you. I'll miss the comfort of routines. Some challenges, now matter how inevitable, are ones I'd just as soon put off facing.

But I don't get a vote here.

These paltry words, ever inadequate.

I should be back in about a week.

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