I Don't Really Give A Shit What You Think
It's hell to get old.
I wrote a story on EP years ago about losing my best friend to cancer when I was 12 years old. It was the first time I was a pall bearer and unfortunately not the last. When I came home nearly 20 years ago, I reconnected with quite a few people. One of those was my friend's dad.
The day before yesterday he suffered a massive stroke and was airlifted to the hospital where they kept him on life support long enough for his remaining children to get there and say goodbye. He passed away shortly after they removed the life support.
His passing is really sort of the end of an era for me. The last living parent of a grade school friend. There are a couple still around from later years, but, with the exception of my own father, He was the last one that really had any strong connection.
I am not really sure where I stand on this to be honest. I mean, sign me up for a quick passing like he had, but really, where does the time go? The flood of memories his passing brings of my childhood years is really setting me on my keister.
shitfuckpissdamnhell.
The last three stories I have written here have been about death.
I wrote a story on EP years ago about losing my best friend to cancer when I was 12 years old. It was the first time I was a pall bearer and unfortunately not the last. When I came home nearly 20 years ago, I reconnected with quite a few people. One of those was my friend's dad.
The day before yesterday he suffered a massive stroke and was airlifted to the hospital where they kept him on life support long enough for his remaining children to get there and say goodbye. He passed away shortly after they removed the life support.
His passing is really sort of the end of an era for me. The last living parent of a grade school friend. There are a couple still around from later years, but, with the exception of my own father, He was the last one that really had any strong connection.
I am not really sure where I stand on this to be honest. I mean, sign me up for a quick passing like he had, but really, where does the time go? The flood of memories his passing brings of my childhood years is really setting me on my keister.
shitfuckpissdamnhell.
The last three stories I have written here have been about death.
56-60, M
