Pops

Saturday, March, 28, 2009
King's Front Yard (Worringham, Zimbabwe)
Afternoon

And as I look over at Dad on the adjacent chair, eyes closed, breath
in take beginning to rise to an eventual snore, hands laid over his
head swirling, book on his chest, all cute and aging, just a moment
after he repeatedly proclaimed that "I'm just not tried. I'm in
trouble, I'm never going to fall asleep tonight."

This is a brief love letter to my dad, to you, about my dad.

He's been gone for a day now, and I can feel the difference. I didn't
anticipate that it would be that noticeable. I didn't realize that I
got so used to him being by my side. But I did.

I think that Dad learned a lot from being here. I already had past
knowledge, but still I cannot help but learn with new experiences. And
it was great to experience it all with Dad. Some old things, many new
ones.

Spending two weeks straight with someone, in a foreign land
especially, you learn a lot about someone. I knew these things, but
they were just reaffirmed. Dad is so thoughtful, caring, and giving.
He just cares about everyone around him. Especially the guy in the
wheelchair on the streets of Bulawayo, as he kneels down and speaks to
him, eye to eye. He gives what he has of his money, ready to buy
whatever he can for someone else. And he smiles, this big round smile,
eyes wide, welcoming and goofy, but welcoming. I'm proud to be his
son, and I miss him, and I hope that I'm at least partly like him.