Thinking of my father and all fathers who’ve earned their rest this Father’s Day.
I’ve never been one to marvel at the mystery of fathers and sons. Rather, I never questioned that those relationships are anything if not imperfect and a little bit bleak from the onset. And I’ve always been OK to leave it at that.
My own father has come to the end of his life. I know this because even though I live several hundred miles from him, I get updates on the events of his final days and hours via text from my sister and mother.
It seems we’ve gone back to the days of the telegram. Throughout the day, precisely at the moment I’ve dived back into work and temporarily forgotten about what is about to transpire, I receive a staccato smoke signal from the front lines in the form of truncated updates that read both cryptic and true: “He’s no longer taking food and little…
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