Fewer days before me than there are behind me

My father said that to me once about eight years ago, and I remember how beautiful and succinct I thought it was. I focussed on the beauty of his words, rather than contemplating their actual meaning. My father, when the spirit moved him, spoke like a poet, and it was the sound, the imagery that appealed to me. Not the message.

And then, almost two years ago, he died.

BAM.

Just like that. Gone.

What the fuck?


Reality check. I am 38. My mother died when she was 60. My father died when he was 60. Should family history mean anything, I can only expect another 22 years.

Not enough. Nowhere near enough.

My word for 2007 was BEGIN.

My word for 2008? HEALTH.

Just watch me go.