I don't know, blog babies. I've been distracted. Doing strange things. Like walking into plate glass windows. And going splat on the sidewalk. And calling the same person twice on the same day and completely forgetting that we had a conversation. It's slightly unnerving.
My dad is in the hospital. He's having open heart surgery tomorrow morning. I alternate between feeling upbeat about it and crying over Levis commercials. Meanwhile, my dad hates all the fuss. In his usual practical, stoic way, he wrote a letter of detailed instruction "should the Reaper come calling." The three-page missive written in my father's tiny, immaculate hand on yellow legal paper is bossy and clearheaded and unsentimental, the way one might outline an office evacuation plan.
Under no circumstances should I fall under the ministrations of the undertakers, he wrote. I shall be handled quickly in the manner of the Jews and the Muslims and without religious ceremony.
My ashes should be kept until they can be buried with mama.
That last bit was hard. It's where I stopped reading. It's where I began to imagine a world without the two guiding forces in my life. And where I tell myself that it's an inevitable reality I pray I can dodge for a while.
With that in mind, please send positive vibes, baby panda kisses, and best wishes from the Baby Jesus. I'll take whatever I can get with all the gratitude in my heart.
xoxo,
P.
Image from here with thanks.
