I never remember my father going for a night out with the boys, nor do I ever recall my father drinking. I never saw my father take a day off work because he was sick, nor did I ever see my father lie down to take a nap. He had no hobbies, except for taking care of his family.
For 22 years, since I left home for college, my father called me every Sunday. He was always interested in my life, how my family was doing, and I never once heard him complain about his life.
Nine years ago when I bought my first house, my father, who was 67 years old, spent three days painting it. All he asked for was a glass of iced tea and that I hold a paint brush for him and talk to him. But I was too busy and I could not take the time to hold the paint brush or talk to my father.
Five years ago, my father spent five hours putting together a swing set for my daughter. Again, all he asked for was that I get him a glass of iced tea and talk to him. But again, I had laundry to do, and the house to clean.
On January 16, 1996, my father called me as usual. I had to get to church, and I cut the conversation short. Then at 4:40 p. m. that day there was another call. My father was in the hospital in Florida. I got on an airplane immediately. On the way, I vowed that I would make up for the lost time and have a nice long talk with him.
I arrived in Florida at 1 a. m. My father had passed away at 9:12 p. m. This time it was he who did not have time to talk, or time to wait for me.
