The cat’s licking the condensation off of my Pabst bottle, and as she moves on to my glass of abandoned milk from earlier, I ponder this:  Would my father be proud of me?

I haven’t asked myself that question for a few years.  After the constant agony his death had bestowed upon me had dwindled, I had found it easier to push the question to the back of my mind.  But it always came back to me on the anniversary of his death.

Would he be ashamed of who I had become?  Would he be upset if he knew some of the things I had done?  It’s only 5:30 in the morning, but I know that the question will be in the forefront of my mind for the entire day, whispering in my ear when I least expect it.

I realize then, as my cat is stalking some unknown prey, being quite stealthy until she knocks my glass over, that I’m proud of who I am.  Despite my short comings and faults, I like me.  With that realization, I know he would be.  Proud, that is.  

But for now, I’m going to settle into the couch and drink a toast to my father.


It’s early, yet.