The Last Zucchini


It was a beautiful day at the end of the summer, the day I picked my last zucchini. I started the morning by paying my respects to a dear friend upon the death of his father. The man was 90, had a great life, lived independently to the end, played golf, and bowled regularly. He had sons and grandchildren who loved him. It mattered that he had a good life, but now he was gone. I cried when I approached Richard. I thought of my father.

Richard said, “I am retiring next week and I was going to have more time to spend with him.”

So sad. Next week, always next week.

“When you have a good one, you want them around forever, no matter how old. You always want another cup of coffee, another ball game.”

I miss Dad. I wanted another cup of coffee and a game. I had more things to say.

I picked the zucchini before it was fully ripened because it had little time left. Fall was near. Winter was coming.

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5 Comments on “The Last Zucchini”


  1. I miss Dad, too. More than I ever imagined. Then again, his legacy is all around me.

  2. Lucie Zammarelli Says:

    I was in my thirties when my father died. He was 69 and was diagosed with colon cancer when he was my age now, 62. I knew from the start it was bad but with help from his good doctors, he lived for another
    7 years.
    I loved my dad so much. He was a great father to us kids and a wonderful Papa to his 4 grandchildren. The kids were young when he died but they remember how wonderful he was. Took them on special walks to the Lake near his house, built them a swing set in his back yard.
    Yes, I miss my father so much, even all these years later, but the thing that gets me through is how special he was. And for that, I am thankful.
    What I do is not grieve the loss but celebrate the life of this wonderful man. The man I called “Daddy”. I was blessed to have him as a father, even if his life was cut short by this terrible disease. I thank God that he was my Dad.

  3. Anita Iannuccilli Says:

    Ed,
    This post made me cry. I miss him too.


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