“Daddy, why can’t you play golf with me?”
“Why can’t you walk to the ninth tee any more?”
No easy answers. “Daddy is not so well.”
He pushes his trolley, head down and pulls a face I have got to know.
Hours on the putting green with his friends; great people everywhere at the Club.
Getting dressed takes a while, the kettle feels heavy, cutting toenails an effort.
There is hope. New ideas, new people, some people keep going; that is me.
The memory of last week’s gathering of fellow als people now distant;
Good to try once, but I’ll miss a few now.
Blue sky, warm sun, the golf course a perfect surface if walking tricky.
Funny how golf came into our life, just at the right time.
Balls and sand fly out of the bunker; then a red cap and a flash of blond hair.
Sebastian and his friends invent endless games.
Terminal illness; two or three years; what me? Too much to give and do; I choose to stick around.
“I feel sad.” Well, of course my wife can say this. She believes; she has faith; she works even harder for the family.
People want to give so much; their eyes show incomprehension and compassion. How can life be like this?
Six on the eighth, I had a skinful last night, off to New York on business; I like the clubhouse chat.
Sebastian, I can watch, “was that good?”, well, I’ll always answer.
A great Sunday; how lucky and blessed I am. Look what I have.
Pick up the sticks; off to the pitching greens; “was that good, daddy?”