I didn't think I'd care. I didn't hink I'd care when my father died. We haven't spoken a word to each other in over 3 years. Not since the Bears/Colts Super Bowl. Suffice it to say that my dad, being born and raised in Chi-Town, was a diehard Bears fan. I hate everything out of Chicago. Especially the Bears. I talked crap throughout the game and believe it or not, it was enough to make him not talk to me in over 3 years. And this is coming AFTER I spent the first 20 years of my life being a thug and a criminal and an overall piece of shit to society. He always stood by me, never wavering in his support. And those who know me know that that's saying something. My prison career started at 14 (I was -at the time- the 2nd youngest person in the State of Florida charged as an adult) and it didn't end until I was 32. (I'm now 40) He was there throughout it all, never wavering.

Yet a football game seperated us for the last three years of his life. It's not like his passing is some great big shock. He's been a modern marvel of medical greatness for well over 20 years now. So it's not a shock.

But it is.

My dad was bullet proof. My dad couldn't die. My dad was undefeatable.

Shit.

Seems I was wrong.

I guess being 83, having Diabetes, emphasema, High Blood Pressure and 85% Kidney failure means something.

Even to my dad.

What I've realized is this. And this is coming from somebody who has watched all 4 of his best friends be buried, plus a few who were just friends.

I can die. And soon. (I have medical issues. None are SUPPOSED to be fatal, but anytime Biopsies have to start be repeatedly performed.....that's not a good thing.) Life is short and life needs to be treated as the gift it is.

Me and my Pops...we've always had a strange relationship. When I first started thugging it at 11 or 12, there wasn't much he could do. NOTHING he did or tried to do made or could make a difference. He tried. Lord knows he tried.

He sent me to Military School. I was back home 30 hours later. He sent me to live with my Aunt in Chicago. I was back in Miami before he was. (Literally) He had me committed to hospitals twice. I escaped from them both within days. He tried programs and I laughed my way through them. He even tried kicking my ass. That didn't work either. He tried it all. The end result of it all was one of the few pieces of advice that he told me that truly stuck.

"When arrested, never say a fuckin' word. Ask for your lawyer and your father and then shut the fuck up. Never have a buddy with you and never ever tell on yourself. Make the cops do their jobs". And that's a quote. That's love!

My dad was -sorta- an honest man by the time I was born. But he came from the srteets and he wasn't an angel by any stretch of anybodys imagination. For Gods sakes man, he met my mother when visiting his attorney about the case that -eventually- caused him to flee to Miami. ("Moved" would be to generous of a phrase for it)

But man he was a stubborn hard headed bastard. That dude... He'd make you want to kill him sometimes. Most of the time in fact. I'd have whipped his ass a THOUSAND times if he wasn't my dad.

But he was.

He was my Pops.

And now he's gone.

I didn't think I'd care. I was wrong. I was wrong big time. I'm devastated by this for a multitude of reasons.

Today I bury my Pops.

It sucks...................................