Updated: Apr 13
Dad, 6 months ago you opened your eyes for the last time to glance over at me with grace covering your face. You made a fist and raised your arm up to the ceiling. I can only imagine that we would too, raise our arms when we see the angels and walk up to the gates of heaven. It has felt like 6 years since I’ve called you. These days, I have to call 4 different people to get the answer I’m needing when it used to take your one opinion or thought. It’s made me see just how intelligent you were; even though you left high school early and some of your closest relationships made you feel like you were inferior. You always said you knew so much because you had to self-teach and learn hard lessons. You asked me each day if we were doing okay - if we had enough to eat and gas to get to work. I always said “yep, we’re fine!” even when we weren’t. Luna is doing good, although we are seeing just how spoiled you had her from this last decade. I told mom the other day that I never imagined getting my dog back, and here we are. You have left a big gap in my heart that coffee and chocolate cannot fill. You said I’ll be okay, and I am OK. I’m OK in the sense that we are managing. I wish you were here to see June Bug finally walking and stick out her tongue to the side when she’s concentrating, just like you used to. The bigger kids understand that you were here and now you are not, and that is hard. People keep asking me how things are going. You know, my chickens and the coffee shop. It’s phrased in a way that they are expecting me to say “I’m just not strong enough and I need to quit.” As each flock is raised and leaves, I start a new flock. We have made quite a few changes but coffee shop is well on its way, too. I cannot help but wonder, Dad, if this is also how people looked at you 25 years ago. “You are landscaping? Selling cars? And building a mechanic shop? You are crazy!” You weren’t crazy, Dad. And neither am I. We are just two of the same people, with big dreams. I’m not going to quit, Dad. Your favorite latte is on the menu and I can’t wait to display your silver dollar. I look forward to honoring you at my grand opening. I will cry. We really miss you. We think about you everyday. We wonder about who you are now. We don’t know much about heaven; the bible isn’t totally clear. We talk about what the streets of gold and pearly gates will really be like. If God isn’t done creating his kingdom, I wonder if he put you to work? Are you excavating the road in a big Kubota? Did you finally get your CDL and are trucking the gold to pave the way? I hope you are enjoying your new cancer free body, while singing amazing grace and catching up with your Dad. Love,
Dads 50th at the penguin.
Scott Nicholas Cabin - Snowmobiling weekend 2003, if i could give a guess