In honor of my dad who died at the young age of 56.

Stories With Heart

Standing in the hospital lobby, waiting for the elevator to open, I anxiously bite my lip.  It seems like I haven’t seen my daddy in forever.  But then, to a ten year old time creeps at an agonizingly slow pace.

I’ve had difficulty making sense of what has been happening.  All I understand is that daddy had a surgery of some kind.  All that matters to me is that I haven’t been able to see him for what seems like a long time.  (In those days, 1964, kids were not allowed to visit hospital rooms.)

My daddy is the strongest man I know.  Not strong like those pictures of Charles Atlas in the back of my Archie comic books, body glistening in a semi-crouch with a globe of the world on his shoulder, promising to turn any 98 pound weakling into a mirror image of him. 

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