For Dad

     My dad’s birthday is approaching. He’ll be 81.

     This lovely man, who once climbed a ladder and painted our three-story colonial, who was the king of bocce and barbecue at every family picnic, who became my personal human diving board at Jennings Beach is now plagued with health tribulations. He suffers from diabetes, heart disease, the aftermath of a stroke, hearing loss and prostate cancer currently in remission. And to top things off, he is missing his ring finger, which fell off when he fell off some scaffolding in his 20s. The effects of these series of unfortunate events should have stopped him years ago, for no one in his family ever lived past 70.

     But my dad prevails.

     Perhaps it’s my mom’s Italian cooking. She’s crazy good at it, and as his primary care provider, she waits on that old soul hand and foot. No one has been more effective at such a task as she:

“Rose,” he calls from his leather recliner. “When are we gonna eat?”
“When do you want to eat?”
“Now!” Then there’s the pause. Wait for it. Wait for it. “What are we havin'?”
“What do you want?”
“What have you got?”

     Fifty-five years of this, in sickness and in health, as promised. Nothing has stopped this man. He remains the scrabble king who, dare I say, is rarely beat, though my brother begs to differ. He is a master at the 1000 piece puzzle, hunching over the board on the dining room table sharing the midnight crickets’ shift.

     Perhaps it’s his unending head-held-high approach to life that singles him out in a crowd of otherwise negative people. I sure do know a lot of fatalists; Complainers who take comfort in bashing and blame. But Steve assures us that any of that is a “waste of time.” So he is quiet unless there is something funny or positive to say.

     Still, I find it unbearable to see him this frail. It's just so unfair. Simple tasks like walking up the two stairs to his house leave him out of breath. Buttering toast puts him in a quandary when the bread slips to the floor. Swallowing toast without choking is a rarity. As I watch him getting in and out of the car using every bit of strength, I wonder how he can even tie his shoe. The simplicity of daily life provides my dad with enough challenge to warrant a nap. And then another. And then another.

     To me, Steve is a hero. An inspiration to all who let the world, with all of her faults, invade the space of the true happiness God intends for us to have. In the sunset of his life, My dad beams more like the dawn.