Every day he would drive to town to sit for hours drinking beer at the VFW, waiting for a few friends to make the rounds, sign the book for a daily lottery drawing. He’d buy a few rip-off tickets in the hopes of getting lucky, hitting it big. He would watch jealously as others worked the machines for hours. My father was a good pool player. Despite the smoky bar adding to his breathing trouble, he could play for hours if he sat down between shots. Remembering him as he went about his daily life, the monotony and solitude of the empty house, brings on waves of grief even years after his death. I wish I would’ve been at home with him more. I wish you could’ve known him.