My Pop and Me.

It’s my Pop’s anniversary on Saturday. Unfortunately it’s the kind of anniversary that weighs heavily on me, as it’s the anniversary of his death. My Pop died last year. It’s been a year already. My. My. How time flies.

Well, it does, really.

It was only a moment ago that we hung out together on our drives to Zama and Yokosuka. For some reason I was his buddy and we just drifted around in the car going from base to base. It was on one of these occasions that I told him that I was going to be an archeologist.

“Why,” he asked.

“I want to dig up mummies,” I replied.

He smiled encouragingly. You see that’s what Pop did best. Nothing fazed him and I amused him. I was just some zany kid that had an odd imagination several times bigger than me. And he was my audience.

Decades later and now that he isn’t around, he’s still my audience. I still check in with him. Funny how I never sought his approval when I was younger, but as I matured [well, sort of] his was the only opinion which counted.

So now that I’m at the age where I shouldn't be doing things which may be deemed idiotic, shameful and downright stupid, I wish Pop was around to smack me a few times. I thought about this today. How easy was it back when he would be around to knock some sense into me. How I could’ve used that slap of awakening recently.

Pops, I’m really ashamed to say I’ve done it again. Another unforgivable, irreversible doosey of a, well shall we just say I pulled yet another Philip?

I’ll see you Saturday Pops. Ok. Ok. It's really Dad. He was never Pops.

Miss you all the same.

Love you.

Your son,

Philip