He only died old.
He was old and gray and tired, and we caressed his wrinkled hands before they took him away, and we stared at his lifeless body, because we knew it was the last time we’d see him, and we straightened his creased shirt, and we kissed his weathered cheeks once more, and we knew perfectly well how old he was the day he left us.
We gathered old photos, and we’ve been keeping them beside us, on the kitchen table, in our office, in our bedroom. We stare at them and talk to Dad as if he were still here, and when we’re sad, we search and find new photos, we search in the closet, the attic, we dive deep into places we have forgotten, and the new photos give us more of him, new gestures, new features, then we forget the new photos are old, and we forget how old he was when he left us.
Dad died old but we remember him young and vibrant and full of life, and when we stumble upon a photo of his late days, we stare at him but we don’t recognize him. We ask, who is this man, and we exchange glances, we shake our heads, we say, this can’t be Dad, but there is something there, a spark in the eyes that cries out Dad, then we look away, because Dad never grew old.
He only died old.
