My dad's sick. I just heard the news this morning.

I hate this... I just hate it. Why does it always have to be quid pro quo? Now that things are looking more promising for me I hear about this news. And it's so poignant to be happening for real because in two month's time, my parents will be celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary and all the kids are scheduled to be there with them to help celebrate it... it just seems so scripted, so chronologically arranged. Like the movies where they have sick people who's only wish is to be able to stay for another Christmas and their families rig things up to celebrate Christmas in advance so the sick people can have their wish. Well, my dad is not that sick, thank God. But I worry nonetheless.

I wish I never grew up. I wish I remained a little girl... looking up to her Dad, strong and invincible... the one who takes care of everything, the one you tell about people who've been bad to you, the one who gives you a big walking doll and not another toy throughout your childhood, the one who stays with you in the hospital after a long day in the office, the one who massages your temples when you're having another migraine attack, the one who buys you Malteds, the one who bought a whole library of Reader's Digest's Mood Music and would make you jump when he flares up because for some reason you've developed a penchant for sitting on the records, the one who bought you a complete set of Og Mandino's books because he was getting antsy from all the Mills and Boon Romance you've been reading, the one you'd go with swimming to a deserted lagoon when all you want is to stay with the other kids splashing on the shore but you'd do it just the same because you want to show him how brave you are, the one who pre-ordered roses and asked his aunt to take you out on your graduation because he can't be there, the one who'd pick you up at 7pm from school and drive the car with the windows down because he knows how much you like the wind against your face and listens to you as you recite the jokes you've noted down on your pad that day, the one who said to your husband-to-be, 'If my daughter turns out to be a bad wife, just give her back to me. Please don't lay a hand on her.'

I want my father back... the one I used to know... strong and invincible.

God, I want him back.


********************

Strange how things fall into place on their very own.

I was downloading songs by the Indigo Girls this afternoon and came upon a song by this group entitled 'Bury Me at Wounded Knee.' What a title, huh... and of course, it didn't make sense.

Currently, I'm reading 'A Thousand Country Roads' by Robert James Wallace, the same man who authored 'Bridges of Madison County' (this new book is, in fact, an epilogue). This evening, within the pages of the book, I learned that 'Wounded Knee' is an Indian reserve somewhere in South Dakota.

Another puzzle is completed for me.

By now, the song has long since ended and I've lifted the pages of my book to start another chapter.

And so it seems with life... you pick up a lesson, you're wiser by a step... and you move on.

I am no longer that little girl, I know. I'm a lot older and a lot wiser. You see, my Dad and I... we've moved on. He always knew I will not be a child forever... and now I know I can't expect him to invincible for always.

Things fall into place.