It Just Gets More Different

My father would have been 99 years old today had he not died 41 years ago.  Each year I imagine what he would be like if he were still alive.  This is the first year I've really considered that, were he still alive, he would be old enough to die at an old age.  Of course, he didn't die at an old age but, instead, at a remarkably young age.  He didn't die with his boots on nor did he die wearing his hat.  Nevertheless, at the moment of his death I know that he tipped his hat back on his head, smiled his eye twinkling smile, and turned his horse toward the horizon.
After all, Daddy was a cowboy.

His memory is a blessing.