Meeting him, as with every time, I hold my breath and check my watch until he arrives. The fear is barely still relevant. Years have passed since the moment I started the worrying; he is well now and there's no reason to doubt him.
We always fall easily into conversation, our patterns realigning and syncing up each time. It's easy to be around each other; we understand each other without having to talk. It's always been this way.
This was the second hardest visit. (The first I don't easily talk about unless I've been drinking and have tissues close at hand.) We haven't talked much since my grandmother passed away, when I left a message that I'd be away a couple of days if he tried to get ahold of me. The last month I had a slight worry that something may have happened to his father, a Vietnam vet and cancer survivor who had been having more serious health issues since last September. But then I convinced myself he was probably just busy with work and life; we go through cycles, the both of us.
We met at America's Dog for a Chicago hot dog and chat. Things were fine, we talked about buildings and looked at the CD/45 Motown sets he borrowed from the library and discussed what I did before meeting him. I mentioned Graceland, which he knew I was going to, and said I liked seeing how people honoured their families and friends. He suddenly blurted that his father passed away on March 19th, days before my Omi. I choked back the tears, knowing in that moment things would never be the same again. I asked why he didn't tell me sooner; he wanted to tell me in person, he needed to tell me in person.
It's been years since I saw his father, but I remember seeing their relationship firsthand and realise how great the loss is. I let him talk, trying not to ask too many questions, yet feeling terrible that my silence was making him fill in the quietness. All I could think of was the baseball shirt I sent his dad and about his mom. His parents met when they were 17, married a couple of years later, had him a few years after that. His father was just 58.
The tears in his eyes when he recounted his final visit with his father... His dad was acting "crazy" and was agitated and restless. Usually their visits consisted of watching TV together because, toward the end, his father couldn't speak and became too weak to write messages. On that night, though, his father was in and out of sleep, each time he woke he told him to go home. He fought it for a while, saying he was just watching TV and wanted to stay. Eventually, though, he started getting annoyed and decided he'd leave and give him space to be a grump if that's what he wanted. The next morning while he rode the train to work he got the call.
He had a date with his mom after our meeting, so we walked toward his train and talked about anything other than his dad. I always cry when we say goodbye, never sure if it will be the last time, but this time was more difficult. It was the first time I couldn't look back.
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