(C) Daily Kos This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . Four Years Gone [1] ['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.', 'Backgroundurl Avatar_Large', 'Nickname', 'Joined', 'Created_At', 'Story Count', 'N_Stories', 'Comment Count', 'N_Comments', 'Popular Tags'] Date: 2023-02-04 The nurse put him on the scale and measured him up and got the weight. Six two and a half and now two hundred and one pounds of almost nothing sinew and muscle and bone. It’s hard to believe, seems like yesterday, maybe last month at the most, that I’d scoop him up with one arm. &&& The waiting room was mobbed. One kid after another came in. Mostly little ones. My boy not so little anymore. Striped pants. Overalls. Shark hats. A procession of the kinds of little kid clothes possessed of a devastating level of goddamn cuteness. And my boy, not so little maybe, and once upon a time, and I will die on this hill, but for a minute or three, he was the cutest little boy in America. Not so little anymore, and meanwhile, the little ones, adorned in their striped pants and overalls and shark hats, paraded in front of me, to remind me of how soon he and his sister will disappear. A few months now until his sister goes, and a couple of years until it’s his turn, and I can still see them babbling happily in the stroller, side by side, I can see myself pushing them along, wondering how the hell we’d keep rolling without their mother, but we did. &&& He drifted off for the last time four years ago tonight. He drifted off night after night, on that old blue chair my Mom had bought him one Father’s Day. He’d drift off whether we were quiet or loud. He’d take a cat nap and then wake up half past midnight and grade essays until the crack of dawn; he’d grade them as though they were the last essays that anyone would ever grade. He could be withering in his criticism of those essays, but he never took one for granted; he read every last one with every ounce of attention he could muster. &&& The waiting room crowd grew, and I grew impatient, though I hid it. He just sat there scrolling through his phone. He’s a man-child now. You can see the man that will emerge in a few short years, but you can still see the little boy I used to scoop under my arm a few short years ago. &&& My mother and my siblings assembled late this morning in the high school gym to watch him play basketball with our local high school. My father used to love this stuff. No one said anything about it being his, well, what do you call it?\ Death-a-versary? Four years gone now. We hooted and hollered when his grandson swatted shots away. I said to my brother after one of them, “oh, Daddy would like that, when he blocks shots he slaps the ball away so loud.” And my Dad would have liked that. He would have smiled. He would have looked over at me, hearing Riley smack away some shot with extreme prejudice, and just smirked, and I would have smirked back. &&& I look around the waiting room, at the striped pants and the overalls and the shark hats, and then at the man-child, my son, sitting next to me, and I wonder where the years went. I wish I had a few more minutes with my Dad; there’s never enough minutes, and even if you think you’ve said everything there is to say, at some point, you realize there’s something else you should have said. And the sight of all these little ones almost overruns me; I can see him, and his brother, and his sister, sitting in other waiting rooms, I can see myself, overwhelmed, wondering if I could keep it together, I can see myself, breaking down in front of my father after a particularly hard day, and I can see him, patting me on the back, and saying, “I’m proud of you son. You are handling this way better than I would have.” &&& I look around the waiting room, maybe a little choked up, looking at the kids in those striped pants and overalls and shark hats, oh, God, how have these children grown up so fast, I wonder. He just keeps scrolling through his phone and I wonder if I should tell him what I am feeling, if I should tell him that part of me wishes he was still three years old, that part of me wishes I could just scoop him up under my arm and kiss his cheek one last time. But of course I don’t say anything, and we sit in silence until we finally get called in to see the doctor. &&& I remember my Dad in those final hours, four years gone now. Totally out of it. Not a word out of him, just his chest rising, up, down, up, down, up, down. What, I wonder, would he say to me, if he knew I could say only one thing to him? What, I wonder, would I want Riley, or any of them, to say to me, if I am lucky enough to have them sit as close to my deathbed as a I did, to my father’s, four years ago tonight? [END] --- [1] Url: https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2023/2/4/2151164/-Four-Years-Gone Published and (C) by Daily Kos Content appears here under this condition or license: Site content may be used for any purpose without permission unless otherwise specified. via Magical.Fish Gopher News Feeds: gopher://magical.fish/1/feeds/news/dailykos/