I regret not taking more time in recent years to make small talk with my father, who was long retired and spent his days since mom’s passing with his hobbies and spoiling the hummingbirds in his yard. I guess I was too busy to ask a lot of questions about his rich life history, his childhood, the war he fought in but was condemned for upon his return, the wife he adored, the sacrifices he made for his children, the long career he excelled in and enjoyed, the many talents and interests he had, the stories he could tell about the people he knew and loved. Instead, I obligingly visited every Saturday with a list of things to accomplish – vacuum, dust, water the plants, Chinese take-out for lunch, and then I gotta run, lots to do before I go back to work on Monday. I still went to him for advice on home maintenance, of course. He had been my handyman my entire adult life until he couldn’t do it anymore, but he could still guide me on how to fix anything and everything in the home. He was a jovial person who loved a good-natured chat on almost any wholesome topic, but I "had no time" for pleasant conversation. I was too concerned about the threats to our democracy, climate change, and the workaday grind. And then he died. My Dad was gone in an instant. And now all I want is to hear his sweet and funny anecdotes, the mystery of Lincoln’s assassination, and the amount of rain measured by his rain gauge.