my dad turned 75 this weekend. although that's not technically true. because his birthday is tomorrow. there was a huge party and lots of food and the largest number of retired detectives i've ever seen in one place. i heard vague references about my dad's life as a cop and i forget sometimes that he wasn't always closer to the end than the beginning and i think that maybe there was a moment that afternoon where he forgot why he was there and i can only imagine him looking out at this sea of old, familiar faces and wondering where the time went. was it in the yellow ballon? or did the blue one hold the years, weighted down. he held my kids, his two youngest grandchildren and i felt eighteen for a minute. a feather of an adult, preening for him.
he has parkinson's. it is aging him faster than normal wear and tear.
i am my father's youngest child. by years. he still calls me his 'baby' and i still soak it in when he says it and smile. and i float in the sunlight near the ceiling.