On July 4th, he was fine. By Thanksgiving, he was gone. An atypical tumor appeared in my father’s brain from who knows where, and it was fast. A bit of renegade cellular tissue took down a patriot pilot who had survived three wars. Near the end he emerged unexpectedly from a near-coma for a few hours of lucid conversation, and I had a golden afternoon talking with him about the extended family and his desires for us all. How I regret the years of little contact, and that I let distance and differences be excuses for lack of interaction while he was still alive. I’ll see him again; that time is ten years closer now than the day the 21 guns bade him farewell… and I’m looking forward to the reunion.
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