And in the end,
it is not the years in
your life that count.
It is the life in
He was a presence. Loud, booming voice; wise-cracking, playful personality. A kind man and an imposing man. My father. I thought him immortal. He proved to be human after all.
A life lived does not disappear. It was lived, so it exists. I like this. He lived his life big, so it still occupies a large bit of space in the continuum of time.
My father would be pleased. He had a large turnout for his final hurrah. The honor guard would have made him so proud. He spoke little of his time in the Pacific on an Aircraft Carrier, but he was proud of his service during WWII. The old gentlemen standing at attention would have brought tears to his eyes.
So we had a day of tears, memories and laughter. We went out and tipped a glass in his name. As my son said, grandpa loved a good whiskey, as long as someone else was paying. My son follows in his footsteps, as I paid for the fine whiskey he toasted his granddad with!
In my mind, my dad is rolling down the highway on his beloved Indian motorcycle, the sun shining eternally, the road smooth and clear into infinity.