It was the year 2000. New Year had come and gone and nobody's bank account fell to zero. Nobody’s computer crashed in a world-wide virus and the trumpets of Armageddon didn't sound after all.
After the world breathed a sigh of relief and climbed out of their bunkers, life went on. Business as usual with nervous chuckles, heh-heh, knew it'd all be fine.
Autumn came with backpacks and pencils; wind and leaves. While the kids spent their days reading and writing; we spent ours in the hospital and by October the hospice.
I gave the okay for the final dose of morphine. To ease his breathing and I'm sure there are those, even myself, who from time to time think I hurried along his date with death. It was the 2nd.
By the 3rd of the Witches month I was writing checks and signing paperwork for the burial services. We had just got back to my brothers with some chicken for dinner; we had just left the hospice when the phone rang not long after the key turned in the lock. My brother answered and took the news.
He was gone.
There was no time for cake or flowers. No thoughts of presents or good wishes. It really was more of a non-birthday that year.
The day after I turned 32; I buried the man who raised me.
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