Deep Breath

Day 75

My father is sick. It happened very quickly, and I don't know if he is going to make it.

Tonight in the hospital, I kept staring at him. I was thinking he looks great! He's still handsome. He's laughing.


I'm dreaming this.

When I was a little girl, my dad slipped on a rug as he walked to the dining room with a plate of hot rolls. He sprained his arm and had to wear a sling. He had his  tonsils taken out when I was 12.

But that's all; that's it. Nothing else, never sick.

My father grows beautiful peonies and has since I was a baby. Two years ago, he telephoned me and said,  "I have a surprise for you. I am dropping by your front door some peony roots."

I still have the slip of paper he wrote the directions on. It has a smiley face with funny hair and reads:

Do not plant me too close. I like to breathe.  

Love, Dad

The first year my peonies came up weak and spindly, with just a few flowers. "Be patient," Dad said. "Next spring, they'll be beautiful. You'll see."

This May, they sprung up everywhere, fragrant, large and beautiful in white and peppermint stripe, born of 50 year old roots. 

I'm trying to take a deep breath. Ever hopeful, Dad.

Goodnight Friends,

Wanda