Everyday Uncommon


My pop is old.

He is often testy and gruff, easily irritated by the restrictions—on his diet, stuff he can do, what he can hear (his ears have betrayed him), and all other things related to ageing and health.

Anyway, I wanted to say that most times, even when he’s in a huff or when he’s sulky, we never doubt how he feels about us. He gets all misty when we go home to visit and check on him and when we make a fuss on big or small occasions.

He still worries about his kids—his sister’s kids included. He’s both proud of and concerned about all of us. He leads a simple life and hopes for nothing more than that we lead good lives.

I forgot to finish this. I found it in my drafts from June. I don’t remember what prompted me to write about my dad. I suppose it could be that I want to acknowledge that I got lucky with him.  Whatever complaints I have about life (and like many, I whinge just about every little thing), I got lucky here.


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