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The Romo Cafe, It was the 4th of January, Dear Love, I am sitting in a cafe on Fairfax and some other street, a street with closed down businesses, bars on the windows, a restaurant on holiday called Luis Family Restaurant, next to an empty Barberia Cesar, Cesar’s barbershop.
It’s good to get out of Boise and into another world, a world within worlds whirling about worlds other than I’ve been. I came down here to be by my mom’s side, to say goodbye to her baby brother, my Uncle Brian. He’s had cancer for the last 20 years or so, but the past 3 or so have been a rapid descent into the abyss. Uncle Brian has always been a fun human, bought me my first shot of aged tequila, and took me hiking through Yosemite, not at the same time. A few years ago, the cancer spread to his brain. They did a surgery, but the promise was that he wouldn’t lose his personality, but as we have come to see, doctors’ promises are quite wobbly. Before the surgery, much like my father, he stated strongly that there were non-negotiables, and losing the personality, the emotional side of himself was one. I haven’t seen him in person for 12 years. Yesterday, I did. We are staying with them at their house, Aunt Valerie’s house, where he is in Hospice. We walked into his room and there, lying in bed, silent of words, he looked at us, my mom and I, as we said hello. Then she walked to his side and just started bawling, tears falling. Uncle Brian was looking at her, kind of there and then not, looking at me, and then again at her. The tv was on, reruns of Star Trek Voyager, I believe. I kept hearing lasers shoot behind me and then Uncle Brian would glance at the T.V. Then he’d look back at my mom who was still crying. I think it was a shock to him as well. One moment you are watching a show, lying in bed, and then your older sister is standing in front of you crying. I was watching him configure himself. He was holding my mom’s hand, looking at her. You could see his empathy for her. He was saying it’s okay with his eyes, telling her that he loved her, comforting her. He knew that my dad had just died. Three months earlier, my dad was standing in that same room with my mom saying goodbye to Uncle Brian, a last goodbye, so my mom thought. And now there we stood, the wrong brother-in-law and husband died first. A fog moves through me as I hear the voices of my mom and dad, talking about Uncle Brian’s inevitable death. My dad was always there to comfort my mom and now that comfort slipped away. Life doesn’t wait for us. Its time is its own time, a timelessness not made for human consumption. I hadn’t spent much time with Uncle Brian the last day and a half, quick hellos and I love yous. Then I’d leave the room so my mom could be alone with her baby brother. But this morning, I had just gotten out of bed, one pant leg was coming up my thigh, when I heard a crash and then an unknown voice saying, “oh my god”, and then my aunt Valerie’s voice, “What happened? Are you alright?” Her voice was calm as one might expect from a former nurse and a wife who had been caring for her husband in one way or another for the past 52 years. I could hear everything. The nurse said, I told him not to move, to stay put, as he was sitting on the commode that was in the corner of the bedroom. She turned around to put a bed pad down, and apparently he decided to walk to the bathroom and ended up on the floor instead, whacking his head on the dresser as he fell. I heard my name called, and then saw my mom coming down the hall toward me. There I stood in front of Uncle Brian, he was sitting up, hunched over, legs straight out, diaper on. His legs were light and emaciated, atrophied, the scene similar to the last month of my dad’s life. When they get old, when we get old, the muscles disappear and skeletons show up. Once they go immobile, skin bones replace legs. I reached down and he held on to my arms then looked up at me and said, “Oh, there you are.” It was good to hear him talk. The nurse took the back side and I lifted him from the front turning him so his toosh was on the edge of the bed. Then he stood up again with my help as we scooted to his right. I learned with my dad that it’s best to get their ass in the right position so that when they lean back into bed they are already properly placed. It’s something we take for granted, plopping in bed and then adjusting ourselves, but at their stage it is a workout to get well adjusted and they don’t have the strength for it. We did our dance, as if a moment ago never happened, as if he magically found himself laying in bed, oxygen around his nose, blanket pulled up to his chin. He asked me where I was living now. He knew I had been in Portugal for the past 8 years and that I had no plan on coming back to the States, yet there I was, picking him up off the floor, myself as well, I suppose. That was two hours ago. Now I am at a Latina owned cafe listening to Spanish being spoken, drinking a Cafe de Olla, there is a Dad who is younger than me sitting with his teenage daughter who is doing homework, reading “Of Mice and Men”, while taking notes. My girlfriend from 15 years ago, Andi, loved that book, asked me to read it to her out loud, the first time I had ever read any of John Steinbeck’s work, other than a paragraph here and there. I love how memories work, Madeleine cookies. One of the few bits of Steinbeck’s that I was familiar with came from a book called The Log from the Sea of Cortez. Context is always important, so I will give you a little. The paragraph comes from my favorite course, Writing Great Sentences, a course that begins by acknowledging the impossible task of capturing and presenting a living thing, a great sentence. You can’t take apart a ‘thing’, a life, and label its parts and then say you know what it is. A bucket of blood cells, sinews, and fragments of brain and bones doesn’t make a being. A corpse isn’t a being either. Humans love their labels. Slap a name on it and now you know what it is, but never do you know it all, barely a bit, if even that. Isn’t that the pleasure of being awake and aware, to continue to open up to the truth, to the unfolding of the unknown? Isn’t that one of the pleasures of love, of intimacy, to forever be seeking her mysteries, travelling into her eyes, seeking the experience of who or what she is beyond the ideas that we have of each other, beyond the words, beyond the flesh, always wishing to come close, closer still. With women, whom I loved and love, I’d seek the world that moves through them, the wonder, the essence of everything. I have to stop writing now. I’m on my way to Berkeley to play in the rain. Be blessed, stay beautiful, stay sexy, stay as you wish. p.s. Today is the 14th of February. This was originally written on the 4th of January. But I didn’t send it to you. I wanted to send the earlier email first, the words that I thought were finished, that kept climbing into my mind, seeking my heart’s affection. If you missed the last email, you can read it here. Isn’t it a curious life… Also… The link to The Log from The Sea of Cortez can be found here. The Steinbeck quote pulled from the introduction: “We wanted to see everything our eyes would accommodate, to think what we could, and, out of our seeing and thinking, to build some kind of structure in modeled imitation of the observed reality. We knew that what we would see and record and construct would be warped, as all knowledge patterns are warped, first, by the collective pressure and stream of our time and race, second by the thrust of our individual personalities. But knowing this, we might not fall into too many holes—we might maintain some balance between our warp and the separate thing, the external reality. The oneness of these two might take its contribution from both. For example: the Mexican sierra has “XVII-15-IX” spines in the dorsal fin. These can easily be counted. But if the sierra strikes hard on the line so that our hands are burned, if the fish sounds and nearly escapes and finally comes in over the rail, his colors pulsing and his tail beating the air, a whole new relational externality has come into being—an entity which is more than the sum of the fish plus the fisherman. The only way to count the spines of the sierra unaffected by this second relational reality is to sit in a laboratory, open an evil-smelling jar, remove a stiff colorless fish from formalin solution, count the spines, and write the truth “D. XVII-15-IX.” There you have recorded a reality which cannot be assailed—probably the least important reality concerning either the fish or yourself. It is good to know what you are doing. The man with his pickled fish has set down one truth and has recorded in his experience many lies. The fish is not that color, that texture, that dead, nor does he smell that way.”
Stay sexy, stay beautiful, stay as you wish, you divine wonder, |
Archives for February 2026
The farewells and goodbyes…
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The farewells and goodbyes… A Random Cafe, “I am your captain…” Sunday evening, the directions were given, “I am done.” Butterflies and goodbyes, in what seemed like an impulsive decision, my father told my mother that he wanted the nurse. It had been two months. The surgery on the 23rd of September went well enough, but it didn’t go well enough. It was one moment of hope followed by another moment of this may be the end, but in the end, we were hopeful. He was getting stronger. Then he had another infection. The breathing was always a challenge. He’d been intubated three times now and wasn’t going to survive another, but that was where he was heading, maybe. The last day was like all the days before, though it could have been months condensed into a day. The doctors never seem to really know what’s happening. They give antibiotics, they tweak the doses. It’s maddening. The numbers mostly look good, but for two months, my dad said he couldn’t breathe, never able to get a full breath. His mind was there except for the days when he couldn’t sleep the night before and there were many sleepless nights. He’d fall asleep for two breaths and then gasp himself awake, over and over. Sleep would come then it wouldn’t. He was always anxious, waking up in the middle of the night scared. My mom often stayed the night, so many nights. I stayed the night a few times. I am a pro at sleeping in uncomfortable worlds. But the hospital is non-stop. I watched my dad sleep. He slept well when I was there. But he didn’t remember sleeping well. When the nurses asked him in the morning, he’d say he slept horribly. In reality, he was often deep asleep. Torture… To sleep… Only to awake exhausted. I realized he never felt rested, energized, always fatigued, everything was hard to do. Walking was ten to twenty feet at a time, then he’d have to sit. He’d get dizzy sitting on the toilet. Sitting at the edge of the bed was only ever done with a physical therapist or an OT. Even that was difficult, 5 minutes was normal, 10 minutes was a record. He hated not having energy. Before the surgery his energy was back to 75% of his normal strength. The chemo and radiation “worked” but at the expense of his vitality. Nonetheless, he was once again walking up to 4 miles on the golf course, only needing a ride on the hill of the 9th hole. I think it was the 9th, could be the 11th hole. For most of the family, it was a shock to see him as he was. When they saw him he was his ornery loving yet stubborn self, recovered from the chemo and radiation. Most of the family and his friends didn’t get to experience his fatigue, his depression, which was fleeting but there from time to time. He was stoic throughout, but stoicism is not always to be applauded. There is some level of denial and fear shielded by the attitude of the “stoic” perspective. My mom, my sister Christa, and I were there the entire time, for all of it. I think in the end that became a blessing as difficult as it was. We were with him through all the suffering, the confusion, the laughter and love too. Back to Sunday… Actually, Saturday we did our normal visits. I don’t recall precisely what the day was like, but most days my mom would show up early and spend the morning with my Dad. I’d bring her a coffee and some food around 10:30 and then leave, coming back at 2 or so. Often Christa would come around that time or in the morning. Then mom would take a break, go do some things for a few hours and then come back to spend the evening with Dad. She’d come home Saturday evening around 9:30. She’d always fill me in. Like I said earlier she’d been staying the night often, usually during those times my dad couldn’t relax. He loved having her there as you’d imagine. Often though he’d send her home, usually on evenings when I was there with him, watching football or just hanging out together. We’d make her leave. But most evenings she would be there with my father until he fell asleep. My phone rang at 1:34 a.m.. It was my dad. He had called me two or so times over the past month late in the evening. I knew it wasn’t an emergency, because if it was the nurse would call me, not him. In typical dad style, as soon as I answered he just said, “Is your mom sleeping? I need you to tell her to read my messages. The doctor said I may have pneumonia again.” I said, “Wait, the doctor said you HAVE penemonia?”. He snapped back, “I just said that!” “Okay, I will go wake up mom.” We hung up. He was a bit gruph in regards to certain topics. I didn’t mind. He and I were often all about business. We saved the love for other times which was every day when we were hanging out together in the hospital. My mom kept her phone off at night and I had mine on so she could sleep; it’s been like that for some time. Sleep is different when you are the emergency late-night contact. There are only two or three people who ever contact me by phone, while she is always bombarded by calls and messages and people trying to sell her something. I calmly woke her up. She called my dad. They talked. She asked if he wanted her to come to the hospital. He said no, early in the morning. She went back to bed. Now, I always took it as a good sign when my dad would call, especially when he had an attitude of immediacy and that matter of fact tone that was so familiar, the tone that I grew up with, a tone that said, I was most likely in trouble for something I wasn’t aware of doing. Sunday… I showed up at 2 p.m.. Christa had left and I was just coming in to say hello and hang out for an hour or two and give my mom a break if she wanted. My dad was doing as well as he had been. My mom was relaxed yet on edge as she had been. She had the recliner chair next to his bed. He was watching football, the L.A. Rams. She was on her iPad playing solitaire or candy crush. Many days… I would just sit there and watch them watching whatever it was they were watching. They just wanted to be together. My dad out of nowhere said to me, “The blue was great”. I had no idea what he was referencing. I thought he meant Boise State football. They play on blue AstroTurf and their colors are blue and orange. I mumbled something, then my mom said, “He was talking about the movie”. Then he said, “It was beautiful like you said it would be”. Ah… On Thursday, I was alone with him in the evening and I was searching for something for him to listen to or watch that might help him fall asleep. There’s a movie that I adore called The Big Blue. In a curious way it is about surrender to and connection with the mysterious life forces that surround us, though on the surface it’s a movie about free diving. I put it on for him before I left Thursday evening, something for him to fall asleep to, to relax him, to get lost in for a while. When I saw him on Friday, I asked if he watched it. He told me he fell asleep halfway through. I was impressed that he watched it. I’ve been searching for things for him to listen to or watch, but nothing did it for him. So on Sunday, he let me know that he finished watching it. There we were, the three of us in his hospital room. It was a day that for the most part felt like any other. The Respiratory Doctor came in. It was the first time we met him but we’ve all seen him in the ICU as that is his primary location. That phone call I received from my dad Saturday evening was a problem. He was struggling to breathe still, but nothing that we hadn’t seen. It was the same story. The doctor said we don’t know exactly what is causing it, but it could be an infection from the removed trach or any number of things. The doctor laid out the five things he wanted to do and he said it would take a few days to see if it is going to work, but he was confident it would. There was one thing, he preferred for my dad to be in the ICU. My dad refused. The doctor accepted and said it was okay, they would be able to do everything they needed in his room. They discussed emergency procedures, if necessary, like being intubated. My dad said he didn’t want to be intubated again. The doctor understood. He said, “l will get the steroids going and then we will do what we talked about. We will do the five things we spoke of. Why not give it our best right now.” Usually, they would wait and see how the patient responds to one or two treatments then give them another. Because my dad was not just a pneumonia patient, but post surgery, radiation and chemo patient struggling to breathe, who has been in the hospital for two months constantly being drugged and treated, it was different. The doctor left the room and I told my mom I was going to call Christa and fill her in on the latest happenings. The lobby on the 8th floor of the hospital has a wonderful view of the Boise foothills, a view that hides the freeway and all the buildings that would otherwise obstruct a panoramic view of the trees, the foothills, and the endless sky. I told her what the doctor said and it felt like fairly good news. It was the first time in a while that a doctor spoke with such clarity and matter of fact tone, with a plan. Then something strange happened. She was telling me about her experience earlier that morning. She had been in room 8026 with our parents. For whatever reason, for the first time in two months at the hospital, our mom wanted to get in bed with dad. So there she was, helping my mom get comfortable. Christa told me she turned toward the bathroom and then for no apparent reason she felt she was going to start crying, so she told mom that she was going to leave and let the two of them have time alone. My mom of course said she wanted her to stay. She sat down for a bit and watched the two of them, then after an hour or so, she decided to leave. I told her, I would have done the same. We laughed a bit about it, the beauty, the emotions that sneak up on us, the confusing situation you can’t prepare for. I told her I would keep her updated as we always do. Then we hung up and I headed back to the room I opened the door. My mom was in bed with my dad. She was petting him, cuddling him. They weren’t the same people that I was with 20 minutes before. My mom said there wasn’t enough room for the two of them in the bed. She was hiked up on her side, with the bed railing keeping her from falling to the floor. My dad tried to scoot over a bit more. He said, “Emeric come help me move over.” My mom said, “no, it’s fine there’s not enough room”. My dad and I both said, there is plenty. I put my arms under his legs and behind his neck and lifted him up, pulling him toward me. The bed alarm sounded. The nurse came rushing in. “What happened?’ they asked. Apparently if the weight on the bed lightens by a certain amount the alarm sounds. They exited. My mom said, “It is still too tight. I’m going to get in the recliner.” My dad said, “No, stay here. I can move over more.” He grabbed the bed handle, leaned over a titch and pulled himself to the edge of the bed, making plenty of room. My mom sank in next to him. There the two of them were. They looked so different. Mom filled me in on a few things the doctor said while I was gone. Nothing worth reporting, but I started getting teary, pre-tears. I said I am going to go call Christa and fill her in on what you just told me. Sometimes you take those reprieves from your emotions, wherever you can. I called Christa and gave her the minor update and then told her that mom was back in bed with dad, petting him. I might have cried a few tears, because I remember Christa saying it was okay, as I cry laughed. It was a minor flooding, like the aftermath of sneezing, eyes slightly wet, but not so perceptible that when you walk into a room anyone can tell what emotions just washed through you. Then I headed back into the room and told my mom that I called Christa and filed her in and that Christa would be available later if she needed her. Then I said I am going to take off and leave them alone together. As I do, I said I love you to both of them, squeezed my dad’s foot with love and then headed home to eat. 12:25 a.m, just after midnight, Christa calls crying telling me I need to get to the hospital, dad’s decided he’s done. The call lasted 21 seconds. Every street light was green. I never stopped once I left the house. The normal entrance to the hospital closes at 8 p.m.. You have to enter through the emergency room. I was walking in and I could see the lady behind the glass. My body was on its own terms now. I went through one door and then a wave hit me, ‘breathe Emeric’. No one was there, only the lady behind the glass. I’ve been through this entrance before. The sliding doors opened and she looked at me, the first human contact I’ve had since Christa called me 13 minutes before. She started to ask me something but the look on her face shifted, changing dramatically, mirroring mine. I could see her eyes begin to tear up, as I tried to communicate that I needed to see my dad. I managed to blurt out the room number. She quickly looked at the computer then pulled out a paper bracelet, the kind they wrap on you at music festivals. She put it on me, looking me in the eyes she pointed to the doors I needed to walk through. I stepped out the door and then a little green light went off on the wall, signifying the door is unlocked. I pulled the grey door open and stepped into an empty lobby. The hospital on Sunday at midnight is empty. The passageway between the emergency room and main hospital was silent, half lit. I travelled down the corridor, waves of emotions pushing through me, stilling myself for what I was about to walk into. Corridor after corridor. I made it into the central wing of the hospital, another empty lobby. I pushed the button on the elevator and then made my way to room 8026. My sister was on the phone, my mom was holding my dad’s hand, wailing into the bed, saying over and over, “How can you do this to me. How can you leave me like this.” My dad was all business, clear minded and as lucid as can be. I walked directly to him and took his hand. Honestly I don’ t remember exactly what he said to me, other than, greeting me, “Hi Em. I love you.” The nurse, Kaycee, was there. She’s young. Earlier that day my dad and I were asking her about her life. She was probably 23 years old, no older than 25, from a small town in California. She misses her family and is going to move back after her time at Saint Alphonsous is up. My dad asked her, “Do you have the drugs?”. “I’m putting in the order right now,” she replied. Christa was off the phone now. She acknowledged me and then told dad to slow down. He was ready. She said that everyone was one the way. She turned to me and filled me in. She said Dustin, our nephew would be there in a minute. I told her I’d take care of it, and make sure everyone could get in. Then she got our cousin Erin on the phone. She lived with us quite often as kids, kind of like another sister. My dad told her how proud he was of her. Tears were falling out of the phone, but my dad was steady and lucid. Saying what he needed, saying what they would want to hear, always the truth. They hung up and then he called his best friend George. Christa turned to me and said she couldn’t get hold of Britt, our older sister. Everything was moving so fast, so many people to get hold of, nurses coming in, my dad, ready to go. I’m going to do something now that I wouldn’t normally do when I write to you. I’m going to stop here. I began writing to you two Sundays ago, on the 30th of November, then again on the 1st of December. Today is December 14th. I kept wanting to fill you in, let you know what has been going on, but then I’d start writing to you. I’d want to say more, yet some part of me stayed distant. In person, when family came to visit, they’d ask to be filled in on the details. Then I’d be done speaking about it, thinking about it, done with words. But I wanted to write to you, to finish telling the story. On the 28th of November, my sister Christa asked me to write something that she could share on Facebook, something that people could read so that she didn’t have to keep responding to so many people’s questions. Our cousin and our sister Britt, posted a photo and a message on Facebook and that sent a rash of calls and messages Christa’s way, too much. So I wrote something short. I will share it here now. BEGIN… Hi everyone, We wanted to give you an update and let you know about our plans to Celebrate our Dad’s life. Well, actually we aren’t exactly sure yet, but we know we will be doing something in the Spring, some kind of gathering with friends and family. When we know more we will share it with you as many people are inquiring. We aren’t the kind of family to have a funeral in the traditional sense, but we will have a celebration and a gathering, most likely in an outdoor setting. A lot of people are asking what happened as he was getting better, but never quite all the way there. We had already experienced so many close moments over the last two months, many difficult days, weeks, months… He stayed strong the entire time, doing what he was supposed to do. The nurses and staff adored him. We were all excited to have him come home to start the long recovery process. But after many almost moments, fighting through pneumonia and an assortment of infections from post surgery hospital complications, his body just couldn’t take it anymore and he knew it; we knew it. So he chose to have the assisted breathing removed and let go. You know our dad, when he makes up his mind, his mind is made up. He was in control the entire time, making decisions for himself and he did, all the way until the end. We gathered together in his hospital room on Sunday evening, tears flooding our eyes and a calm love in our hearts. He said goodbye to all his grandchildren and his children. Hours earlier he was cuddling with our mom one last time in his hospital bed and now she too held his hand weeping with love and loss. You know, before they gave him any drugs to ease his discomfort we asked him if he had anything else he wanted to share. He said, “Love each other. Just love each other”. He also said, there were butterflies fluttering about the room. We said, “Just like Herbert the giant butterfly”. He used to always tell the story of Herbert the giant butterfly, a loving butterfly that would find itself in precarious situations, sometimes saving children, sometimes keeping kids company, a spirit to talk to. Herbert the giant butterfly, the friend we all need in our life. It was a magical moment as terrible as it was, as sad as it was. We are all grateful for the time we had with him and we are fully aware how fortunate we were to have the opportunity to say goodbye, and even more so to have man like him in our lives, a friend, a grandfather, a dad, and maybe more than anything a husband who was forever in love with our mom. Blessed we were and blessed we are. Dad, grandpa, Richard, was ready to go and I can tell you all, he loves you and really just wants you to be happy. Hugs and love from us all, and love from Captain Zarkon our dad … end … I am picking up here again… Well, three weeks have passed and I can tell you time doesn’t account for itself. There are moments when the memories feel as if they were planted months ago and there are times when it feels like we are still supposed to go to the hospital to visit. Time, for as long as I can recall, never made sense to me; the experience of it was never real, always playing with me. That last Sunday was no different. My dad did one of his favorite things, he watched the L.A. Rams beat the Buccaneers. He loved watching sports. A month earlier the L.A. Dodgers beat the Blue Jays to win the World Series. He was able to watch a few of the games, but not the last game. Both my parents were born in L.A., Dad on Catalina Island, mom in Hollywood. He was an L.A. sports fan since his conception. My mom couldn’t care less, but she loved him. After the game he did his favorite thing, keep close to and cuddle with our mom. I am sure they watched a show while in bed, another of their favorite things to do. Our parents worked hard. They overcame the odds. They were married for 52 years. They were fortunate. They persevered when most fold. They didn’t give up on each other. Together they figured it out. They spent the past 20 years doing all the things they loved; travelling, eating out, playing with their grandchildren, going to theatre, going to shows on and off Broadway, watching movies at home, visiting their children, visiting their friends, volunteering, caring for others, and caring for each other. They lived many different stories and even though it was often messy, they always loved each other and still do. You know, we all come to an end. You have most likely experienced many endings, and yet here you are, moving through life, life moving through you. And as a favorite teacher of mine said, “All is well, all is well, though everything is a mess, all is well.” That has been my experience of life too; everything is a mess, yet all is well, all is well. Blessings, stay beautiful, stay sexy, stay as you wish, p.s. Here’s the quote in full with a bit of context: Anthony De Mello, “You know, all mystics — Catholic, Christian, non-Christian, no matter what their theology, no matter what their religion — are unanimous on one thing: that all is well, all is well. Though everything is a mess, all is well. Strange paradox, to be sure.” p.p.s. It’s Sunday, the 25th of January. I hadn’t sent this email yet, for whatever reason it may be. You know I write to you so often, then I don’t send the messages. I could probably send you a book of words, of moments, of vignettes of days and evenings spent tossed about the shores of Portugal and now the dry lands of Boise, Idaho. This message too… It has been sitting. Today, my mom is at the funeral of her baby brother, down in Oakland. I wrote another email about that. We were there the week before last, but I decided to stay here and have some time alone. At this very moment, the L.A. Rams are playing the Seahawks. I’m not so interested in any of it other than in passing. I wonder if I will ever send this to you. P.p.p.s It’s the 14th of February, and it seems this message I’ve been meaning to send you has finally been sent. Dates and times are all turning over; the winter is coming to an end in a month or two. I can feel it, the daylight extending itself toward summer. This looping moment in time, the places we find ourselves, the lives lived for a single soul, so many lives I have lived, so forward I am looking to live many more. The day before my dad died, as I was driving to the hospital, a song came onby Grand Funk Railroad, “I’m Your Captain“. The lyrics, the music, everything about it told me what was coming. My dad, at some point in time declared himself to be Captain Zarkon, it was where he always said he was heading back to, an otherworldly playful place in the cosmos. Be blessed beautiful being and remember all is well, even when everything is a mess or so appears to be. * Here’s a link for the movie, The Big Blue… I didn’t know it, though I may have known it at the time when I shared it with him, that it was more appropriate for the moment than I knew. |