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Tuesday, Nov. 23, 2004 - 10:02 P.M.
Bad Sounds
There are just some sounds that are bad, always bad. A coughing baby. A child crying. Fingernails on a chalkboard. The tornado siren. Screeching tires followed by the sound of a crash. An asthmatic trying to breathe. I don't want to hear that.
The ring of a telephone in the middle of the night. I don't want to answer.
The voice on the other end of the telephone saying "Hi, it's mom. I'm in the emergency room with your father. He's having chest pains." I don't want to listen.
I'm not going to eulogize my father. It's nowhere near that time, and even if it were, I'm nowhere near ready. I'm not ready to acknowledge that he's aging. Nor that his body is beginning to show the wear and tear that 77 years brings. I'm not going to give a moment of consideration to the idea that my Superman's cape is fraying or his tights no longer fit.
Clark, I'm begging you to please take your glasses off, and step into the phone booth. I'm afraid, and I desperately need you.
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