My Father’s Birthday

My father was born on this date.  Had he danced on until today, he would be 92 years old.

My relationship with my father strained near the end of his days.  And I was surprised when, upon pouring his ashes into the water of Prickly Pear Creek from Riggs Street Bridge (as he requested), his cremains remained there at the bottom of the creek—a somewhat brighter color on the stony creek bottom.

My sister Debbie and I were both there on the bridge pouring out my father’s cremains.   I suppose we both fancied he would be carried away by the creek.

“He stuck.” My sister said to me.

“Yes,” I said, “he stuck.”

—Mitchell Hegman