Old Man River

Tired of living but scared of dying.  

And  I raise a glass to Bobby, Rasputin, the miracle of modern medicine, my progenitor, my Daddy who clambered up the moulin stairs for St Steven, demanding a glass of red and Aretha Franklin and seemed so small all of a sudden and asked why his hand looked so black in this photo.  I squeezed it and kissed his forehead and told him he'd been through the mill and back.

Just keep on flowing a little longer my Bobby.