Reflection

As children, we rarely stop to consider the people our parents are, have been and want to become. I've been sitting next to, sleeping with and breathing in my dad for the past 5 days, and although he can barely speak you can learn a lot by observing.
My dad loves clocks. He has a clock in his living room that ticks the seconds and chimes the time on the hour. There are four, almost identical clocks on the book shelf in his room and two on his bedside stand-one digital the other analog. He told me once that there are many forms of time; captured in different ways. It wasn't until I stopped to look around how affected he is by it.
My dad hangs his art too high, but he has a lot of it. Each picture is of nature, culture or water. All things I have known my dad to love, but did not realize he surrounded himself with.
My dad loves and adores his children. He keeps two albums, one of Greg and one of me, in the bottom drawer of a dresser in his living room. They chronicle our lives together. I had no idea he had them. He kept old fathers' day cards. He has I poem I wrote him hanging on the wall in his den, along with a tiny mold of my hand and a pen jar I made him. He has a photo collage of my brother and I in his office and a picture of us on many surfaces.
In the same living room drawer I find that he was an incredibly handsome man (young and old). He loved to journal and (sometimes in a 'grass' and hash induced hazed) looked at the world through the eyes of a philosopher. He was moved by 911, the election of Obama and the demise of the Seattle PI. He saved the newspapers for these events. He touched and was touched by people from all walks of life from all over the world. He loved and is loved deeply. He is sentimental.
My dad has his own chaotic organization system and doesn't indulge in expensive or unnecessary items. His love for biking can be found on his wall of bike art, the two bikes he keeps inside his house and his set of drawers dedicated to his biking wardrobe.
He recycles and composts. He loves ouzo and a good beer. He owns one calculator and it is solar powered. His Mac is his biggest indulgence. He should own stock in IKEA. He has enough fleece to warm Antarctica and probably wishes he had the change to visit. He has faded Tibetan prayer flags, Christmas lights and a bright fish kite hanging on his porch. He likes color.
My dad isn't done living, but he lost his choice. It is comforting to know how full his life has been. That even as we say goodbye, he is surrounded by people that love him to their core, people that have been touched by his generosity, his huge heart and his thirst for life. People, that while tears run down their face, only wish him peace.
My dad is afraid he won't be remembered. He thinks people will forget about him soon after he is gone. Forgetting him will be impossible. When someone touches your heart, your soul, they are a part of you, and you cannot forget, will not forget.
I don't want to say goodbye to my dad, I am not ready to lose him, I cannot describe the desperate loss I  feel, even while he is breathing in the next room. I hope he knows how much I love him and that I will carry his person with me as I continue to travel through life.