Logan Romano took the NHL like a hurricane- dark and brooding.
With his natural talent, brute force and sheer determination, he goes completely unchallenged both on and off the ice.
He's notorious. Both for his success and his stormy personality...
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It's only as I reach my Dad's hospital room door when I hear the distinct chatter. It's an all too familiar sound- one that somehow shocks your entire system yet doesn't surprise you at all.
Go freaking figure. I leave for a few hours and this happens.
"You got any fours?" Brody asks thoughtfully.
I wait silently by the door for a response, gripping the handle tightly in my palm.
Who the heck is he playing with? My Mom? Maybe but I doubt it, she's always hated games. Arizona? I pray to the high heavens that it's not. It could be a nurse, or a slightly more twisted theory would be that Brody is playing cards with our Father's damn corpse.
Although that would be a sour way to start my Sunday morning.
"Go fish, kiddo."
Kiddo. There's only one person on this entire planet that has ever called us that. Only one person who can make 'go fish' sound like an inspirational quote, make it sound comforting and like a win rather than a loss.
"Dad." I whisper to myself in disbelief, peaking into the small window on the door for a better view.
"Screw you." Brody huffs like a sore loser and draws another card from the over-bed table. "How do you not have any fours?"
There he is.
A little gaunt- certainly not as built or as squishy as he used to be but he's not as skeleton like as he's been at his worst. His skin is a little jaundice too with it appearing a more yellow-ish tone rather than the warm tan he once had.
My least favourite part about his appearance is his hair. God, his hair. Five years ago, for a man in his early 40s, Dad was blessed with a full-head of thick brown hair. It was his pride and joy, so much so that he would spend what felt like hours he spent combing it over into the perfect style.
Now?
Now there's hardly any left. Now it's thin, wispy even, and more grey than any other colour. There's not nearly enough for him to style it, and I know the patchiness has been driving him insane for 5 years.
That's why he covers it, hiding the visible sign of his illness under a Knick's baseball cap.
"I think the real question is, how do you not have any four's, Brody? You've been fishing for hours!"
But none of that matters. Not really. Not in the long run at least.
All I care about is that he's still here. My Dad is still living, breathing and teasing my little brother as if he isn't headed for major surgery and more vigorous rounds of chemotherapy.
