The Ticking Bomb
For my whole life, my dad was the strongest, smartest man I ever knew. He stood at an average height of 5’8″ and his hair is pin straight and thin , except for the bald, shiny spot at the top of his aging head. He wore vibrant, multicolored button down dress shirts, accompanied with old tattered navy blue jeans and steel-toed boots everyday. I can still hear his deep, scratchy voice as he walks in the room and says, “Mac, I’m home!” My dad never cried except at my grandfather’s funeral, where I promised him I would never lay a hand on a cigarette for as long as I live. His words are forever embedded in my mind like a megaphone blaring in an ear each time temptation is around me. He started working at the age of nine as a paperboy in Knoxville, Tennessee and since that day, never stopped.
He was fine. He told me that when his frail body limped up the stairs to his queen size bed. He walked at a slow pace, than descended into the bed like his limbs had decided to all break at once. That was the last time I saw my dad as my dad.