My Dad used to play drums in his Boy Scout troupe. He played the bass drum, beating along to the marches, growing up hard in Ramallah, Jordan. He didn't really tell me that when I chose to play drums. He didn't really tell me much about his childhood. I had to glean it from comments here and there and stories from his family, who aren't the kind to wax nostalgic.
He passed away on February 25th, about two weeks from his 71st birthday. He had a massive stroke that would have finished most men instantly. But his heart kept beating for two more days, until my brother was able to come out from Ohio and see him. Until everyone who needed to see him was able to come and say goodbye. Then, on a beautiful Monday afternoon, while the sun was shining in the blue, and with my mom, my brother, myself and some close family and friends around his bed, his heart made one last, triumphant, desperate rhythm, rising to a crescendo until it's final beat, sending him off to be with his God.
I hope when I see him again, among other things, I will be able to finally play drums with him, side by side, in glory.
I've been away from this blog for a long time. What started as a celebration of my son has been neglected, so I think it fitting to rekindle it in celebration of my father. Time is fleeting, and those of us who keep time know this best of all.
Here is the count off.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four...
