“Looks familiar.”
Those two words arrived via text message, from my dad, last Sunday evening. I had sent him a video of my son playing hockey in our basement, cleared out because of floor repairs. It looked familiar because 25 or 30 years ago I was the kid whacking a puck around an empty room.
We lost my dad this past Sunday, a week after that text, due to complications from MDS/leukemia. He was 67. And he was the best father, coach and mentor anyone could ask for.
I told myself I wouldn’t work this week, but that probably wouldn’t sit well with him.