I always told the ******,  he'd live to 100. I'd be gone before him.
He'd poo poo me. I'm getting old.
I'd say, I am too.
He knew it was coming. Last year he's been saying he's tired.  Same things Marge said . He had a long life.
Not near a Saint  but his good was street good. He grew up working the streets, playing the game. He knew right from wrong. Just, his wrong was defined differently.
I saw him cry once.
When his daughter died.
I admired that old ****. He was my dad for twenty years of my sixtyfive.
I tried to live up to that. He helped change me.
I should have kept more in touch.
Shoulda coulda.  I felt I owed him.
I did. I felt I was imposing on him. Tried to be independent.  
Hope he knew that. I didn't want to impose on him.
Hell. Let me shut up.
I'm only regretting. Nothing I can do now