D.B. Woodside Instagram – Time for me to catch my train. Our drives to that little nondescript station were gratifyingly routine. You talked. I listened. You wanted to be the last voice in my head before I returned to a callous world I had unfortunately grown accustomed to. You’d drive slow. You’d always drive slow with your children in the car. Of course I know now this was simply your quiet stoic way of draining every last glorious second of that ephemeral moment. This was how you loved. Slowly. Carefully. Meticulously. When we arrived we would park & wait outside. I’d lean against the car & I’d soak up your old black man magic. I remember laughing hard that day but it was abruptly cut short. The train was pulling up. How I wish I could remember what I was laughing about. I’ve tried so many times but it’s gone. Lost in that little space in time. That space that only we shared. I hugged you. I didn’t wanna let you go. I never wanted those moments to end. I wanted time to downshift & reverse course. I wanted to be six again. I wanted to be that skinny quiet kid that would crane his neck upward simply to observe this tall, handsome, cool as fuck black man. I hugged you. I remember how small you felt. You’d been sick for a long time. Hanging on for your wife. For your children. I began walking down the terminal but stopped, gathered myself, faked that “actor” smile, turned & said, “Don’t you dare go anywhere, Pop. I’m not ready to lose you yet.” Normally this was when you’d smile back & say, ”Get on outta here boy, I’m not goin’ nowhere.” That was our way. I did my part. Walked down, stopped, gathered myself, faked that “actor” smile & said, “Don’t you dare go anywhere, Pop. I’m not ready to lose you yet.” That day… you lowered your eyes. You shrugged. That shrug shattered my heart like glass. I have never been the same. That was the last time I saw you alive, old man. I take long drives these days. I drive slow. I feel you with me. Giving me your old black man magic. The “actor” smile is fucking gone. I am unapologetically raw. With each passing day I become more grizzled & love more slowly. Carefully. Meticulously. After all, I am my Father’s son. Happy Birthday, old man.