I’m beginning to not like Christmas all that much. I’m getting to the point where I wonder, “Who am I going to lose around the holidays this year?” I don’t think it’s a cursed season or destined to happen year after year. But for now Christmas leaves the bitter taste of melancholy in my mouth—a taste that I hope doesn’t sour any further. I am the dog, and my Pavlov is one twisted son of a bitch.

Nobody sucked the marrow from the bones of life like Pa. Sure, he sometimes said inappropriate things at inappropriate times. He once stripped down to his purple briefs at the lunch table in order to show me his fresh bypass scars. But between these embarrassing moments lived a man with constant desire to learn and experience. He bounced from one hobby to another, always learning, always doing. At 91, he was still welding and crawling under his house. At 93, using a cell phone, driving and answering email. I even saw him on Facebook once.

The last time I saw him, Pa was about to recane my sister’s chairs. He didn’t get a chance to even start that project. His health faded fast. Or maybe it just seemed fast to me. I don’t get home very often. I always figured Pa would go to sleep in his own bed one night and just not wake up the next morning—unexpected and gentle, which is about the best that any of us could hope for I think. I still wish that could have happened for him, but I think the ending he got was nice all the same. Pa was surrounded by love, visited by family, aware that his presence on this earth made a difference. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll find my end to be similar.