There are not a lot of things in life that scare me, but the big pieces that are supposed to be life changing, those do.  It's not the normal neurosis that make a change in how I live day to day, no, but the inevitable changes that I will experience and accept, those things tend to occupy my sleepless mind when rest should occur.
At some point my dad will die.  I know my mom will as well, and that there will be avoid felt by that, but also a weight will fall from me.  After so long trying to be responsible for all the people in my life, separation thus far has taught me that life without so much of her will be so hard and yet so free, my own.  Dad, on the other hand, has been an ally and pillar.  Though he wasn't always there when he should have been there are still enormous parts of me owed to him.  I take after him in looks and sometimes in stress, but mostly in wanting everyone to be taken care of.  From my father I learned, though I rarely do it, how to be alone and still productive, doing things for myself and treating myself.  While my mother's gifts are almost luxurious my father's are more along the lines of heart felt, comfortable, useful.  His treats are making sure I have everything I need, bringing home the right ice cream, souvenirs from business trips, gigantic hamburgers.  We are always fed; human needs are before the chores to come.  His perseverance through his life, taking his future into his hands when he was one of the first, if not the first, in his family to complete college has taught me to be serious about my own education.  More over, not to do things for others, but for myself.  While I love to make both of my parents proud, I know that I gain more satisfaction from an A+ paper than I do their congratulations.  Yet, disappointing him always breaks my heat.  At times I worry that through my mistakes the veil is lifted and he sees the mistakes he has made in my life.  I know that they are there but I pray that I do not reveal them to him.  I want more than anything to be someone he need not worry about.  
His worries are mine.  I do not worry about what he does, no; I worry that his worries will have a devastating effect on his health, mentally and physically.  The man who once told me over a dinner date on my way back to school home that I should keep in my mind as he does that Christ told us how worrying does nothing and to lay our cares on him, that man who would shake his head at my lowering of expectations in boys who were too young to understand love or how to treat me, the man who has always been a provider seems to be fading from me.  I can see him change slightly every time I come home, losing hope for his own future, allowing the darkness of impending evening to overcast his days.  My mother says I am the joyful one, and I try to send that to my father, to give him some of my life as he has done for me so many times.
The future scares me.  The idea of needing to be grown up is haunting, constantly lurking in the corners of plans, unable to be clearly seen and chilling my bones with uncertainty.  If I want only to live simply, with a house and job and simple joys of my own, that doesn't mean I will get to.  There are also the people I want to include in the future.  Will I be planning around others or my own best interest?  Is it more selfish to go out on one's own or to want to have the comfort of familiarity always near?  
Now, at this time, a boy has entered my life and taken a place that has been waiting for so long to be filled, though I can't yet tell if it's the right fit.  I wrote man and crossed it out to rewrite boy because I don't like lying about these things, and while he is well on his way to being a man he is not there yet.  Maybe a boy doesn't become a man, maybe the steps and changes are being a man.  Maybe being a man is a boy's journey when he can no longer have others taking responsibility?  
Sometimes I fear he is too good, that while I care for him it won't be enough to give the relationship passion.  But there is also a feeling that this isn't supposed to be like that.  When past relationships were only about sparks and fierce, fleeting feelings, this could be more of a slow building fire that will not go out if we continue to tend it properly.  Love is a choice, as they say. Even so, what if what was once tended is left for dead?  This I know, in the face of that possible event, that I would feel the brokenness and the royal pain of heartache, but take with me a hope in that what once was could be again.
My dad and I used to go to the beach together in the summer a lot.  We would walk on the sand until there was none left.  He would always, either once we got there or right before we left, go to the water and cup his hands, taking a sip and swallowing, then another to swish in his mouth and spit out.  He would look once again out at the vast ocean, drying his hands on his pants, and then turn his blue and yellow eyes I've inherited back to me.  We would dive home and in the car I would usually leave a pile of sand from walking barefoot in the water.  He didn't complain, usually.  When he is gone I know I will spread his ashes on a beach, hopefully that beach, which is his favorite place to reflect.  Its waters will always reflect his eyes to me at sunset, with the sun's yellow glinting off the sea blue, and I will drink and swish the salt water in my mouth.