preparations

My father has not been well. He’s 86, a multiple cancer survivor, and he’s tired. He’s frail. He’s 139 pounds and 6’1″. His legs are about the circumference of my arms. He looks like the pure instantiation of will.

I was visiting this weekend to help out and run errands. We bought him a new suit, a statement of hope that he will be here to go to the next party. But he also had me type up the details of his career for his obituary. He wants to be remembered for what he did, who he helped, that he made a mark in this world. I can feel him pulling back. He’s almost ready.

I’m not afraid of death, and I’m not opposed to choosing your time to go. But I cried on the train home.