My father is dying.

My beloved dad, who holds up the sky, who can fix anything with spit and baling wire, who loves me always and all ways, is dying. His COPD has turned severe and he's turning Home.

On Wednesday, his pulmonologist said he will never fully recover from the pneumonia that's held him in its grip since before Christmas. The road will only get rockier from here. No one knows how fast it's moving, but something wicked this way comes.

One of Dad's brothers died last year. His sister has Parkinson's. One sister-in-law is lost in dementia, a brother-in-law is close behind.

Mom spent all day yesterday and today cleaning out the basement. She says she can't change what's going to happen, but she can make it easier on us when it does.

That, my friends, is love in action. Dad always teases that the three of us kids did a darn good job of picking parents. That doesn't begin to describe the grace and gift of being their child.