I keep thinking about Dad and when he died. The hospital room that day, the way he "talked" with his eyes until the very end. I keep remembering the last breath he took. I can't help it and I hate to think of it and I wish I could think of other things. Better things.
Not long after Dad died Mark and I thought we would go fishing at the creek. I went into Mom and Dads garage to get Dad's tackle box. I picked it up, opened it up and my mouth dropped open. Inside were a jillion cigarette butts. Neatly packed on top of his lures. In fact it looked like they belonged there. Obviously he hadn't quit smoking. I guess I knew that...deep inside I knew it. I shook my head and Mark and Mom stood there with their mouths dropped open. I felt such a...dismay...it seems like I was always telling my Dad not to smoke when I was a little girl. I hated the smell...although sometimes now I like the slight whiff of a cigarette burning... I don't smoke...can't stand it...I remember thinking...I wonder when he will die of cancer back when I was little.
Mom and I picked out a headstone. There is a fishing scene on the back. The only thing it needs is a cigarette and the picture would look like him.
Wish I could sleep