Only the Good die young

I have become my father. Quite figuratively. I spend nearly all of my time out of doors. He was always on his porch. Sitting on a bench carved by his deceased best friend. There he would sip his coffee and listen to the local rock n’ roll radio station. Or be listing to the Beatles, The White Album for the 1008th time and singing along. Come noon a satisfying crack, busting open the sweet bliss of the goddess of hops. And he would sip and sing, sip and read the newspaper, sip and pet his dogs, and sip and stare off into the forest, his eyes engaged in a projector reel of his own life somewhere in space between the trees. Many deep sighs came from that bench, and shaking heads of disbelief. He chooses to stay in the forest. Away from the world he no longer understands. I have be come my father.