Sessions: 8

Believe it or not, I've always been a sucker for epilogues.  I love when, at the end of a story, the narration jumps to ten years in the future and everyone is happily married, or having babies, or dead.  Well, the happily married happened; my brother and his fiancee are now Mr. and Mrs. Snowball and, on my suggestion via my therapist's suggestion, found a great time share in St. Thomas for their honeymoon where my brother immediately proceeded to knock up his new bride.  On a drastically less happy note, my dad had a heart attack about a month after the wedding.  I took all of my vacation and sick days that had been piling up at work and took a month off to go home and help take care of him.  That's where I am now.  Dad's been in the hospital for a while; he had to have the whole bypass surgery deal.  During this time I've been staying with my mom, helping her get her mind off the whole ordeal.  She's even attempted to teach me how to cook.  I am proud to say that I have now regained my talent for orchestrating the perfect bowl of instant oatmeal.  And I can almost make a meatball.  Almost.

While Dad's in the hospital recovering, I've been going there every day to sit with him.  We watch Family Feud on the tiny TV hanging from the ceiling, or he continuously kicks my ass in Gin Rummy.  I always find a way to get some of the nurses to play which Dad gets a kick out of.  Tonight as I was leaving, he said he had something to tell me.

"What's that, Dad." I say, sticking one arm into my coat sleeve.

"You're good at what you do, you know that?" he says, shifting in his hospital bed.

"Well thanks, I try my best I suppose." I answer, stepping forward to fix the pillow that had slipped behind his head. "Here, sit up for a sec."

He leans forward as I pile the pillows behind his back and smooth down the sheets around it.

"I'm serious," he says, "You're good at what you do.  But, I think you should try something else."

"Try something else?  Like what?"

Dad leans back and settles into his bed. "You've always had so much going on in that head of yours.  Let it out.  You used to write poetry and stories all the time in college.  Go back to that."

I sigh and begin buttoning up my coat.

"Dad, there's not really a rich lucrative career behind writing.  I make good money now.  I can pay the rent.  I'm good."

He shakes his head.  "No, no.  You can do better."

I kiss him on the forehead and tell him I'll be back tomorrow.  Driving home I made every single green light.  Maybe I'll stick around here a little longer than I planned.  Find some tree to sit under and write a poem or something.  I dunno, we'll see.

The End.

(for now)