Fire House

I must admit, I did a lot of laying around and eating this weekend. Saturday, I learned my friend Sam's dad passed away Monday. She texted me an image of a chrome cigarette lighter with the Traffic Light logo, an ancient strip club in the area. Sam told me she found it while cleaning out her dad's house, and that is when she told me of his passing.

I met up with Sam on Sunday evening at the Firehouse, a bar in Mt. Clemens. It is what the name implies. A converted fire station that was turned into a bar. It is also coincidentally only two miles away from the Traffic Light if that bar survived the past year. I'd never been to the Firehouse before (or the Traffic Light, for that matter). I sat at the bar close to the entrance, so I did not take in much of the room, but there did not seem to be much of the old fire station or its memorabilia remaining.

Sam ordered an appetizer and ate. I drank a few beers and listened to the details of her father's death. It has been a while since we've gone out together to eat. The conversation is somber. We are facing our own diminishing years. It is unlikely I will see a grandchild become an adult. Max is twenty-two. Hopefully, he is still years away from having children of his own. 

I don't want to get old, I mean really old. My father was eighty when he passed away. I like to think I am in better health than he was at my age, but eighty is still too long. 

I think Sam is feeling lost. For the past several years, Taking care of her parents has consumed much of her free time. Now she will have more time for herself, and she doesn't know what to do with it. I can relate to that. Enjoy the moments. That is all we can do.