2019: The year of living differently

On Oct. 1, my father died. He’d had a minor heart attack and by the time I got to the hospital, he was sitting up in a chair. His skin glowed. He was alert and talkative. He told me he couldn’t wait to get out of there the next day — because they were telling him he just might get out of there the next day — so he could “tip a beer.”

But just before 5 the next morning, his nearly 87-year-old heart stopped. The medical crew tried to revive him, but except for a momentary flicker of a heartbeat, that was that.

My pops had left the planet.