When I was 21 my dad told me he had congestive heart failure. Not even a year later he died from complications with heart disease. He was only 55, just a few short months from his 56th birthday. During that time, I wrote a lot about what I was experiencing as a way to process things. He explained it but I was still so young in a lot of ways; I was finishing up college, trying to get my life together as a young adult, and not understanding why my dad's personality and health were changing so drastically in such a short time. No one and nothing can really prepare you for the possibility of losing a parent. In fact, when you are young, you typically don't think about your parents' mortality. Rereading this poem after so many years, almost seems like I was mad at him at the time, but I was really mad at the disease. There were things I wish he had done like not smoke cigarettes his entire life, not drink so much beer, and just in general take better care of himself. He wasn't in "bad shape" when you looked at him but between the hereditary heart conditions that run on that side of my family, and the decisions he made to smoke and drink I'm sure didn't help with what was going on in the inside. I think I was already starting to grieve at that point and didn't even realize it. Anywho, I'm 38 now and I still cry when I think about him. There is so much I wish I could share with him that I know will be lost in time one day when I'm gone. That's the circle of life, right?
