Remembering my father

My father died 39 years ago today.

I was 8 years old. He was 36 years old.

He was in the navy and was on sick leave because he'd recently had a heart attack. My mother worked afternoons and evenings.

I came home from school and found him sleeping on the kitchen floor.

I went outside to play, as usual.

When all the other kids were called in for supper, I went in and found him still sleeping on the kitchen floor.

I tried to wake him up ... but he wouldn't wake up.

We lived in an apartment house and I went to Margaret, who lived in another apartment, and told her I couldn't wake up my daddy.

She went down to our place to check it out.

Alas, he never woke up again.