(2009)
It's Tuesday night. Pops night. Every Tuesday is Pops night, a decision we made the week after my mother died.
My old man and I walk past the restaurants we walk by almost every week, past the restaurant where I used to work at least three lifetimes ago. In the middle of this plaza they call a towncenter is an ice-skating rink. When the weather is warm, it's a pavilion for concerts. When it's warm and there are no concerts, it becomes an open area for kids of all ages to run around.
I pause and watch the mayhem and my old man indulges me. I have a limitless capacity for being entertained by other peoples' kids. Knowing I'm not responsible for them is liberating, allowing me to live vicariously the way most adults do through musicians and athletes.
A toddler, proudly if unsteadily ambling in front of his parents, pauses and looks up at us.
"Hey little guy!" I say. The little guy squeals with delight and the parents give me that familiar look that conveys appreciation and solidarity. As they move rapidly in the other direction my old man leans in close and says, not for the first time: "Make me one of those."
I smile and nod, not saying what I'm still uncertain he fully realizes.
I'm doing my best.
YOU ARE READING
Please Talk about Me When I'm Gone
Non-FictionQuestion: How do you get over it? Answer: You don't. You don't want to. It makes you who you are. Sean Murphy lost his mother days after her fifty-ninth birthday, following a five-year battle with cancer. In this eloquent memoir, he explores his f...
