It's Not Your Bucket List
I've wondered lately where my sense of humour went. Oh sure, my latent sarcasm is, well, latent; but then I realized the increasing amount of heartache I (and people in general,) are forced to bear as we age. My dad told me today that his doctors gave him 18 months to 5 years to live, and a 50/50 chance of a surgery in January maybe alleviating those odds. I couldn't even cry when he told me. Not until I started drinking, and even now it sits, underneath a laquered exterior of solemnity: so little causes me to react much anymore. That is of course not entirely true, because I do still cry, and get depressed, and feel sorrowful, but it's usually alone, within the privacy of myself. I'm almost ashamed that I present such a collected exterior to people when it would almost be more appropriate to be a wreck. I can't even fathom a reality in which my Dad does not exist...and when I try to it's just a big black pit like a black hole within my heart, that sucks and sucks and sucks and which inevitably leaves me either 15-20 years in the past or in the no-dad future.
After my Dad told me it became immediately clear why he had lost all sense of thriftiness and has planned a half dozen trips in the next year. My dad's bucket list. There, I found my inspiration to cry.
After my Dad told me it became immediately clear why he had lost all sense of thriftiness and has planned a half dozen trips in the next year. My dad's bucket list. There, I found my inspiration to cry.