George

George is my father-in-law. I've never liked the term father-in-law as it applies to him; it seems too formal, too mandatory, too much associated with obligatory visits with relatives you'd never choose to spend time with if it weren't for social demands. George and I just aren't like that, we never have been. It all started 10 1/2 years ago on my first visit to Mark's house. Somehow I ended up out in the garage with George, Diet Dr. Pepper in hand, sitting on a stool as he worked on something, I don't remember what, like it was the most natural thing in the world. We hit it off immediately.

On the eve of my wedding he told Mark that if he broke my heart he'd kill him. That's not normal is it? For a father-in-law to say that to his own son? And on my wedding day, he told me I was the only one he would've chosen. He called me daughter and he has ever since.

Needless to say, I love this man. I love him for so many reasons. I love him because he always gives me a hug at breakfast. I love him because he always sneaks me the first bite of Turkey or BBQ. I love him because he always stocks the freezer with Rocky Road when I'm around. I love him for buying me all my shoes. I love him because like a good friend, sometimes all we have to do is give each other a look, and it's understood. I love him because I'm the best me when I'm with him and his darling Marsha. I love him for saying "hi" to everyone on the street. I love him because parties and church make him grumpy like me. I love him because he's a man's man like Gus and Call on Lonesome Dove. I love him for giving the best parts of himself to my Marko.

Maybe part of it is that he entered my life when my own father abandoned it. Someone knew that George is exactly what I needed.

Anyway, George is sick. His cancer, like a ghost, has returned. It's a choking, chest-heavy heartbreak.

I'm not a praying woman, it's just not something I've ever been good at, but I might just have to give it another try now. For George.