Father’s Day
My Father was diagnosed with cancer when I was 13. When he died 8 years later, they burried him in a little plot of land, next to other little plots of land.
For eight years he traveled the globe.
Doctors were replaced with healers. Medicine was replaced with therapy.
He gave up cooked foods, hugged trees, and had little Chinese ladies puncture his body with thousands of needles. For eight years he tried to bleed, sweat, and mentally drive the disease from his body.
But in the end, not even eating 200 organic tomatoes a day was enough to save him from the disease that had ravaged his body.
A disease that killed his family. A disease that left his children without a father.
They burried him in a little plot of land in a small town where other people wait to be burried. They burried him alone.
