Another Christmas. One week left of freedom, then back to the classroom. What a crazy year. My older son married. My dad died. My dog died.

I've been thinking a lot about my past--growing up in Galveston, the happy times and the sad. Is this what one does when the future seems uncertain? Or maybe it's the holiday. Christmas eve I made a pot of gumbo for a family get-together. How my father loved nice spicy gumbo! Normally, he would join me in the kitchen and be the “taste-tester”. He would start telling his WWII stories to the children. Of course, I had already heard them dozens of times and yet, I was still intrigued with his accounts. And I found myself missing my little dog, Petey Boudreaux. Every Christmas he would sniff out his gifts and unwrap them. How he loved a new, squeaky ball. He could toss it in the air and then catch it! Very cute.

I’m not even sure if I properly grieved for my dad. He had been sick with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma for over two years. From the time he was diagnosed he had the look of death in his eyes. When he passed, mom and I were at his side watching his breathing as it slowed and finally stopped.
“I’ll get the nurse now, mom.”
“Is he gone?”
“He is, mom.”
I reached over to close his eyelids, but mom asked me to leave them open so he could see. I thought it odd. The nurse returned with me to the dad’s bed. She placed a stethoscope to his chest. “Is he gone?” mom asked again. She knew he was. We gathered her belongings from the room—a reading lamp, a lap blanket, a clock. There were papers to be signed and people to call. After all was done, I went back to my father’s room one last time. Was this small wasted man my dad? Impossible! “Bye, daddy—“ And so it ended. After 86 years on this earth, W5RK was over and out.

I saw your photo online. It was easy, I simply “googled” your name. But there was no initial recall—just a side view of some older guy. It couldn’t be you—probably someone with the same name. I clicked on the image just to make sure. It enlarged, and yes, there was some semblance of the boy after all. Whew, I thought I would always have immediate recognition of your face. It was, after all, burned in my memory. But that was the young you—the boy. As I studied the photo carefully, I searched for details that might speak to me as to who you became. Your nose seemed different—the tip a little lower. Is that what happens when we age? I placed my thumb over the slackening jaw-line. Oh, yea…now I see you. And your hair! Mostly gone on top. Ah, my blond-haired boy, love of my youth—how vulnerable you look. There is something so invincible and strong about youth. I see that now. How I wanted to reach through the monitor and take your face in my hands turning it this way and that, kissing the creases around your eyes and mouth as though that would erase time and make you mine once more during this lifetime.