...and the last time I heard my sweet Daddy Don tell me what happened x-amount years ago--which was the night before I was born. The plot of the story never changed, yet some years the exaggeration was more broad and our laughter more loud. Dad's telling of the story was one of our daddy-daughter rituals. His health was not what it once was. Somehow, down deep I knew this would be our last celebration together. Even tho I wished otherwise, Dad was gone six months later.
I would ask Dad if he knew what April 8 was. He would usually respond with, "Trash day, ain't it?" He'd chew on that King Edward cigar as I yelped, "DAAAAAAAAAAAAD!" Then we both would laugh.
As I sleep tonight, I pray an angel, with a hint of cigar smoke, whispers the story I have so long missed to hear.
I am blessed.