Graduation Day

Dad,

Remember that time?

Yeah. That one.

The one when you were here and everything was just fine?

That time you reminded me wound come the nights I'd rather go out with friends than stay home and sit on the living room couch opposite you and watch whatever HBO premiered that Saturday night?

Yeah. You were right.

Again.

In fact, you're right more often now than you were before.

Not that I didn't listen. If any of your five children could be accused of believing anything you said as Gospel, it was certainly this one.

It's too bad you can't bank moments lost on a random Saturday night, or any night in high school, and put them into a savings account for the years when you'd need them for emergencies.

But what did I know?

I had to go chase whatever I thought was calling me out there.

The adage "youth is wasted on the young" is true.

But every child is guilty of that.

I hope when I see you again, even though we have an eternity, we'd approach things as if we remember what the consequences were when you moved on up yonder.

I hope Heaven has its share of risks as much as its rewards.

I hope even though you now have all the answers--even more than you did when you were here--that you don't waste any thoughts on us. Because that wouldn't be Heaven.

Or fair.

It's funny how we used to have the same conversations over and over again.

"Dad, does everyone (including Mom) call you Butch?"

I told you. I don't know.

"Dad, is it true nobody ever tackled OJ from behind?"

Never.

"Never?"

NEVER

"Dad,  how do you know everybody?"

This ain't my first rodeo.

(Or) I've been around.

"Dad, why don't you like (person  redacted)?"

You paying attention?

"Dad, how do you know when you meet the right one?"

(Glances at my mother, unbeknownst to her, taking care of him, untying and rearranging the tubes, ironically put in place to keep him comfortable. Then again, when you have a month left to live, comfort is relative. Even breath is a luxury.)

"Dad, is there ever a point in life where you don't realize you're selling your soul?"

The Devil already has your soul when you're born.  It's up to you to give your life to Christ so the devil can't have it anymore. Once The Lord has it, nobody can take it from Him. But that doesn't mean you can go around and do whatever you want either. Because God will get your attention.

Look at me.

"What?"

Nevermind. And if you DO decide to speak at my funeral, don't make me out to be some folk hero like you like to do. I'm just a humble father and husband who raised a good family.

"Yeah, that sounds humble, Pop."

Nevermind. Just do what I tell ya.

(In the Borrello house, the word "nevermind" was famous long before Nirvana.)

"Dad, what is success?"

Look at me. Look at all the people who've come to help me and see me in my situation. I guess I was pretty successful.

Yeah. I guess when folks pay their respects when you're living, that means something.

Some even came and sought counsel knowing my father would be the perfect person to talk to.

Like Michael Corleone in The Godfather:

"Besides, who's a better consigliere than my father."

Seven years. It got easier for awhile, but recently it's been tougher.

Maybe it's getting married without Dad there.

Maybe it's doing house projects without his guidance.

Maybe it's some of the folks I put stock into he otherwise may have warned me about.

Maybe it's because he was just that special.

Maybe by now he's learned a few new things.

Maybe after seven years--not even the lifespan of a sandfly in eternity terms--he has a few of the answers even HE couldn't provide.

If he were allowed, I wish he could pass them along. But again, that's just a mortal talking.

Where Dad is, those questions don't matter anymore and the answers are irrelevant. It's what makes life life, Earth Earth, Heaven Heaven and time here so important.

But there's one question I want answered when we see each other again and I'm sure The Lord has enough of a sense of humor to answer, because I'm sure it's still the case here or There:

"Why do they still call you Butch?"