Filed under: Armageddon, Daddy
My father died on a Saturday.
He was admitted to the hospital on a Tuesday. He didn’t die that Saturday. He died the next Saturday. There were two Tuesdays.
But the anniversary of First Tuesday isn’t tomorrow, it’s the day after tomorrow, which is actually Wednesday. The way the calendar works, the anniversary of First Tuesday is actually Wednesday.
So it’s not tomorrow; don’t worry about tomorrow. It’s the next day.
Tomorrow he was still at home, still sitting in his chair, and we still thought that he was going to be alive in three Tuesdays.
Only this year, First Tuesday is a Wednesday. Not tomorrow, but the next day.
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Doggone it. Does the pipe tobacco still have any smell? I’d take some big whiffs on, well, tomorrow.
“You don’t get to choose how you’re going to die. Or when. You can only decide how you’re going to live. Now.” Joan Baez. I think your dad would agree with Joan. He was a fan, after all, of the Last Waltz, and while Joan wasn’t part of that production, she was part of Woodstock, as was The Band.