I didn't know it would be the last time I stood in his yard or in his garden. Instead, I just laughed as I watched a mama turkey coax her wild babies past the fence. Idly, I picked a few seed pods, nothing important. Just weeds. But, their pattern entranced me.
They rest in a tiny glass on my studio window sill. It's been several years now, and they're beginning to crumble. A part of me wants to scatter the seeds, and let them grow, weeds or not. Because then, you see, a part of my dad, my childhood home, would be alive and well.
I can not begin to tell you how much I miss this man, his wicked smile, and the lights in his eyes. He was born in that house, and he meant to die in it.
Dementia had another plan for him and for us. His body lingers, but the man I knew as my dad is gone for the most part.
And, I am so very glad that he doesn't know.