remembering rigoletto

I had pictured my final days with my dad. 

I knew they'd likely be in a hospital.  I saw myself spending hours at his bedside, reading perhaps, but attending to his every need.  Maybe we'd listen to some opera.  It might calm him. 

It wasn't like that at all. 

He slept a lot.  He'd wake and give a quick wave or on good days would say he loved me but he just had to go to sleep.

He would come and go, come and go. 

I wanted to go!  Go, go, go, go, go, go, go... 

I wanted to go to Russo's and warm my wet cheeks by the oven, mindlessly watching Gonzalo make pizzas and calzones. 

Or go home and pull up the covers.  I'd sink as far down into the down as I possibly could and not come up till spring.