I still can't accept the fact that we might have taken our last fishing trip together. I know you were trying to nudge me in that direction yesterday. I don't want to talk about you giving me your float tube. I can see how hard it is for you to walk now, how hard you have to work just to talk, and eat, the absolute struggle it is to get in and out of a car.
I accept that your life has made me take a long hard look at my own and to examine again just how little time we get here. Screw the yard, to hell with the dripping faucet, I don't give a damn if the pickup is dirty. How many more days do I get to fish, to hunt, to smell the cottonwoods, to feel warm granite, to listen to an elk bugle, to taste fresh king salmon? How many more days do I get with you, my other friends, with my brothers and their families, with my mom or with my dad?
No life is not fair. Not even close. Life is good? Makes for cute bumper stickers and T-shirts. It sure seems better for some than others. You had it good before this damn disease hit you. I know life wasn't always the bowl of cherries, but it isn't always so for anyone. I know, I know, that's what make the sweet times sweet. Damn.
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