Pops is dead.
It has been a good long time since seeing Pops, and the only logical explanation is that he is dead. I have not seen young Pops and I have not seen old Pops, which proves beyond a reasonable doubt that when you die all versions of you vanish, regardless of time travel. Your echoes running around alternate realities...gone forever.
It took some time to come to terms with this realization, moving through each phase of the grieving process, but I now accept the fact that the intersection of Kennedy and Dale Mabry will now be a home for someone else. The sun will shine and a new leaf will sprout.
I have have a care package in the car that rides to and from work with me every day. Combos, popcorn, apple, can of ravioli, fork and a napkin. For nobody.
I don't know when it happened, and I can not say for certain how it occurred. Were my words his ultimate undoing? Regardless of when or how, I hope that Pops has found a comfortable home on the back of the big duck in the sky, eating his Combos and joyously deploying Jazz Hands with the Snorks. He has had a long, tough road...he deserves a vigorous Jazz Hands dedication.
Today's Jazz Hands are in honor of the man they called Pops. Day seventy-five complete.
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