Finely Aged Cheese


I’m aged thirty-four years today, which makes me sound like old cheese, all be it fancy cheese. In the quiet moments of late, of which there are few, I’ve been thinking about my journey thus far. Wondering where the next half of my life will lead and shaking my head at where I am today. Never in all my boyhood dreams, of which there were many, did I think I would be a stay-at-home dad, a follower of Jesus, a writer, an artist and in some respects alive and happy. Happy being a relative term these days, two months after my father’s death. This morning after I had poured myself a cup of coffee I pulled out the corny birthday card he sent me a few years ago. The card made me laugh out loud and made my wife and mother groan. It shows a flock of sheep, one of them saying “I herd it was your birthday.” on the inside it says “Sorry, that was baaaad!” Just typing it now makes me laugh. The card once hung on my office wall and it helped me, as Dad often did, through rough days.
If I think hard enough, perhaps this is part of a dream come true. Certainly the love and children are, and if I dig deeper still, so is the writing. Though I never admitted it until months after I was forced into the unemployment line. Writing has given me a great joy, more than any other medium I have practiced over the years. It makes me feel as if a piece that always seemed out-of-place is now set correctly .
This happy mood and the sadness of the loss of my father is a strange cocktail. An acquired taste much like scotch, which my Dad enjoyed, I began drinking the night we learned there was nothing more to be done for him. My brother poured three glasses and together with Dad we toasted the man who was a role model of grand proportion to us both.

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