He says he doesn't want the night to end, and you mark it in your memory with yellow highlighter; it's a rare occasion when he lets you see a soft spot in the bronze he's made of.
The oxidation you see on him is predictable yet still surprising; the ache in your own knees and pinch in your own back and the date marked on your calendar when you have to go see the cardiologist make you well aware of your own progression from vibrant and shiny to calcified and colored blue.
You probably have another two decades with him, for sure. Two decades, at least. You hope. Because that was his own father out in the yard five summers ago, and nearly ninety summers in, who got caught on Google Earth Street View just out a-mowing the lawn. But when you were five, if you thought you would only have twenty more years with him, you would have begged God for far more than that. Your own age doesn't in any way absolve you of the need to hang out with your dad; to stay up late watching bad movies and talking about the world and the crazy people in it.
So he has to leave because leaving is inevitable; but you know he'll be back soon. He was gone so much and for so long and so many times. But he always came back and he still always comes back. You admire the spots of shiny that have turned green-gray with age. You listen to him tell your mom to walk slowly and watch out for the ice. To him, she's made of the finest, most fragile crystal. She's a chandelier hanging in an inconceivably ornate palace, a source of light that never loses its luster or vibrance or delicacy.
Together, they make for an interesting room.
He doesn't know you're listening, that you're cataloging every story in search of a way to stop time. You watched him say goodbye to his own father; the older, wiser, patinaed version of him made of silver and steel. In a dream, you saw the farewell, you saw them hugging the way that strong men made of strong metal do, and you're sorry about whatever you're made of. It most certainly won't hold up that well when it's your turn.
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