Getting Older.

In response to the one word writing prompt,  Fifty


 

“Happy Birthday!”

I watched as my dad blew out the candles on the cake. A cheesy grin crept along the corners of his mouth. One candle had refused to go out.

That single candle danced back and forth, in front of the wax five and zero. Fifty years old.

For a brief moment, I looked at his face. There were wrinkles that hadn’t been there before. Stressful gray seemed to be winning the battle against his naturally black locks. My smile wavered. For the first time, I was scared for my dad.

He was growing older, one year closer to his death bed.

And that terrifying the living hell out of me.

Dad and I did almost everything together: we did little miniature building projects, fished, hiked–you name it. He’d always been there for me; from kindergarten all the way through college.  I couldn’t imagine not seeing him again.

I gritted my teeth. Why was getting older a thing? Why couldn’t our parents stay the same forever?

He took a deep breath, and the last candle went out.

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