I thought of tomorrow and I wished it was Monday evening

Yesterday was eventful. Post-wedding brunch in Jersey City, home of the Fattest Daly of them all. Well, that's not entirely fair. For all I know, he's moved to Bayonne. The brunch was divine. It was followed shortly thereafter by church and dinner with Ron Weems.

Ron is into Greek food lately and the conversation over baklava warranted a second glass of wine for me, which I rarely have with my dad:

"Kad, I know how many years I've got left."

"Oh yeah? How many?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How many you thinking?"

"I'm thinking 10 years, max."

'Okay."

"And I know how I want to spend those last 10 years. And I know I don't want to be alone anymore."

"Sure."

"Do you know what I'm saying, Kad?"

"Dad, I've wanted you to get married since 1994."

"And I've had a good run. I liked my independence. But last winter was awfully tough, Kad. The other two don't know how bad off I was. They have their own lives."

"Well, so-"

"And so do you. But you're not married with kids. But, you reach a certain point and you just don't want to be alone."

"You are in love with her, right? I've seen you two together. You're cute, you're flirty."

"Sure, we have a very good time together. And we care about each other deeply but when you're 67, it's not the same as when you were in your 20s. Sex goes out the window, believe me. I want someone to have a cup of coffee with. I want someone to take a walk with. These things are important to me."

I looked around the noisy restaurant, thought of my own infirmities.

"I can tell you these things because you and I went through a lot together."

For a moment, all of the heartbreak that my dad and I have gone though made sense. It didn't resolve anything or whisk anything away, but it made an awful lot of sense.