[this is sad]

"I hope you have a good day," I told my father, "Bye."

He said goodbye to me with a broken voice, a man trying hard not to sob. He tries hard not to cry far too often.

Today my father will carry the casket of a man he’s been friends and co-workers with for thirty years. Then he will drive his dead friend’s fire chief’s car and sit in his seat during the funeral procession. They’d worked together as firefighters for over three decades. Both have been promoted up through the ranks together, both district chiefs, both men who fiercly love their jobs.

My dad’s friend was crushed to death by a dump truck. Both he and my dad have second (and third) jobs to pass the days they aren’t at the firehall. Firefighters work in 24 hour shifts, so their days off are many. Many moonlight for extra money. Both my dad and his friend worked for a company called Sign Pro that employs men to aid construction crews by directing traffic. Otherwise known as flagging.

Last week I sat in the newsroom working on the blog when I heard the assistant news director say something about a firefighter working a second job. I didn’t hear the rest. I looked over at the anchor to my right and said, "What did he say?" He called the news director over and asked him to tell us what was up.

"Some firefighter working a second job flagging for a construction company was run over by a dump truck." He said it flatly and matter-of-factly. My stomach lurched. I’m sure my face looked sick and white. I told them that could be my father. Despite myself I started to cry. Everyone within earshot went to work making things happen. One anchor grabbed me some tissue, while his wife, the other anchor began calling any PR people she knew at the hospital where the man was being taken. The news director asked me my dad’s name and ran off to find out more.

Only then did it occur to me to call my father. I dialed his number and waited through three rings holding my breath. When he answered I could barely speak. "You’reokayyou’realright," I breathlessly gushed.

"Hello? Who is this?." My dad was confused. I explained to him what I’d heard in the newsroom when he paused and told me, "That was Willy Barnes, honey."

Willy Barnes is the friend of my dad’s I was talking about. When I spoke to my father Willy was still alive, but crushed from the waist down. I asked if he’d be okay. He told me he wasn’t sure, but that he was pretty bad off. I could tell he knew his friend would die, I could hear it in his voice. There was almost as much pain in his voice as there was just now when I called him.

I called to tell him I loved him and that I was so sorry. What I didn’t say was that despite this tragedy, I am very happy that he’s still alive to grieve his friend’s death. Because that would be selfish.

But I am.