A King Among Men

Today would be my Dad's 85th birthday.  Eighty-five. I can hardly imagine.

As the years have gone by everything has mellowed.

Things I would have been so angry about as a young person have faded into nothingness in his absence.  His stubbornness has become quaint. His ailing end-of-life years cling only to the very edge of my memory. The man I remember loved his job, coached baseball, was the life of the party, loved yard work and the Phillies and washing and waxing the cars.

Not that he's never far from my mind, I do think about him more often as his birthday approaches.  I wonder what he'd be like now if only he'd had a chance to grow old gracefully and had not been plagued by so many major health problems. I'm sure he'd be less active. I am sure he'd watch more TV. I'm sure he'd be even more set in his ways.

But maybe, just maybe, he'd have found a different path as well.

Perhaps he'd have met someone special.  Had the company and companionship that a partner provides. Someone to laugh with, whose hand he could hold. Someone to make him a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup on a rainy day. Someone to buy chocolates for and call cute little pet names.

They'd have their regular place for dinner where the waitstaff would stop asking how they'd like this or that prepared and already know that Dad likes his salad swimming in blue cheese dressing.  They'd have their Sunday breakfast at the local diner after Mass. They'd drive to the shore for the day and walk along the boardwalk holding hands. They'd buy macaroons and fudge and maybe watch the little kids on the bumper cars before driving home.

Or maybe Dad would have found some fellow singletons - divorcees or widowers - and they'd have all retired to a life of afternoon baseball games, golf, Saturday matinees or bowling followed by a few cold beers.

Or maybe he would have jumped into grandfatherhood with both feet clad in spikes and spent countless afternoons with Charlotte's boys and with Pat throwing around a football or learning how to throw a perfect strike. Or teaching every kid on the block how to ride a two wheeler, or making sure Hil never once threw like a girl.

But those are the dreams I'd have for him. Dreams never to come true.

But I dream them because in my mind, that is exactly the man my Dad was.  Just an older version with a different ending to the story. And those are the gifts I give back to him now, in return for all of his love and adoration, his guidance and his humor, his patience and his firmness. I imagine a life for him that he only halfway got to live. Happy Birthday, Pop.