As we sat in the common area, I asked Dad how he was feeling. With his eyes closed and exasperated tone he said, “I’m out of luck.”
That hit hard. I’m used to seeing my dad talk his way out of every kind of problem. I remember getting winks from his left eye that read both childish and cocky as if to say “watch this.” I remember that wink when he smiled blood in the water from people who did not know that were part of a well laid trap for his sharp and quick wit. I remember a man who made his own luck.
To hear him say he was out of luck was to hear him say Santa didn’t exist. To hear a hero of yours, or the person you most admire and look up to, reveal their humanity to you — I found the moment deeply sad.
My sadnesses are never about to impending death.