Thursday, June 16, 2011


I remember the first time that I realized my Father was growing old. It was at my Aunt’s funeral. My Dad’s brother’s wife. Standing next to him it hit me how small he looked. How thin he looked. Standing there talking with friends, his voice was still that strong baritone I grew up with. The one that, on more than one occasion when we kids wouldn’t settle down at bedtime, would boom a “Knock it off” up the stairs. Immediately silencing both the cowboys and the indians. Standing there this night though, his suit looked too big. His neck didn’t fill out the collar of his shirt like it used to. And I remember thinking...Hold on here...Wait a minute...I’m not ready for this. You “da” man. I’m not ready to be “da” man yet. Then he slipped his arm in mine. A body growing old needing just a little support. It was then I realized my Father was growing old. And all those years of taking care of us had taken its toll. I held his arm a little tighter. It was time to start taking care of him.