Hal The Mule

I watch him drift in and out of sleep. He is fighting gallantly to keep his consciousness in his pocket, but he is growing weak. The sound of the old grandfather clock ticking is visiting with the sound of his jerking back and forth, hitting the head of the chair. He cannot carry on like this anymore and he finally gives into this swindler of the tired. He lets go and begins to frolic through fields of chocolate bars and in the middle is his longtime friend, Hal the mule. They start to converse about this and that.

This man who just whisked himself into slumber is my father. As he continues to talk Hal the mule, I examine him. I look at his black, thin hair that is now inviting the ever incumbent Mr. Gray. I gaze upon his face and hands that have become withered in time. Age and hard work are the prime suspects. I begin to think about what he has seen in his days. What kind of places he has been. I think about the first time my mother laid her eyes on him. I think if I could ever be as hardworking and loving he has been. 

He wakes up. Asks me what I want to watch on T.V. 

"I don't care. Whatever you want to watch is fine."