photo_2629_20070729.jpgMy father is dying. These words are the first thing in my head every morning when I wake up now. Six months ago, I awoke to “my mother is dying” rolling around in my head each morning. In a  short time, I’ll be parentless. I don’t want to say I’ll be an orphan because, really, I won’t be. I think of an orphan as a waif, a helpless child. No, I had 44 years with two amazing parents, and while so many of my friends have told me of sad, loveless, even horrific childhoods, I was so blessed. And even though I’m all grown up, I’m just not ready for that parental blessing in my life to stop.

Forty-four years isn’t enough. Most people my age have parents in their sixties. But mine were already approaching middle age when I was born. My sisters and brother got to have our parents longer — 55, 6o years. But I had them to myself. My siblings had quantity of time, but I had quality of time. By the time I was eight, the youngest of my older sisters had married, and I was suddenly an only child in a very large family. I had the best of both worlds. Unlimited personal time with my parents and center-stage attention from my adult sisters and brother.

They had a life I was never a part of. They grew up together, doing the things siblings close in age do. Playing, fussing, scheming. They have a different relationship with each other than I’ll ever have with them. Not better, though. Just different. And while they were busy raising their own families, I was taking long, cross-country trips with our parents, sharing wonderful experiences and learning about things like Indian tribes,wildlife conservation, and rocks. Always rocks. No matter where we went, my father and I picked up rocks…bought rocks….carried rocks home and stuck them in old shoe boxes. It drove my mother crazy after awhile, I think. Now, one of those rocks, actually a piece of petrified wood that my dad and I found, is the centerpiece in a stone wall that stands in my den. A tangible reminder of the enduring relationship my father and I have. Had.

It’s almost over now. But like that piece of petrified wood that was once a living tree and is now a solid rock, our relationship is only taking another form. I can’t go where he’s going, not yet. One day I will, though, and when I get there, we’ll pick up where we left off. Maybe we’ll even find a few rocks.