I was 17. You were sick. You've been sick for as long as I could remember. I wished you could be home instead of the hospital. I wished you could come see me perform like all the other dads did with their kids. I wished you and mom didn't fight. All that yelling.
I was 17. I wanted memories. Memories of us on family trips and spending holidays together and eating birthday cakes. Instead I had memories of red lights, ambulance sirens, and white hospital walls.
I was 17. I didn't understand it at the time but you were slipping away. Your body had failed you. The phone rang on February 17th. I remember it all too clearly. Mom said you were gone.
I am 24. I think of my youth and all I see is that night.
Created: Dec 24, 2010beverly13 Document Media