Yesterday was Fathers Day. Dad had already been on my mind, as 2022 marks twenty-five years since his death. We tend to apply greater significance to various (sometimes random) measures of time. I suppose that a quarter-of-a-century counts as such a marker. Lewis passed away from cancer in August of 1997. I last saw him that June. It wasn't supposed to be the final occasion our paths crossed in life, but sometimes that's how things work out. Dad had received his pancreatic cancer diagnosis in October of 1996. I learned of it that November, and began visiting with him regularly soon after. He lived in Springfield, but would travel -- with his wife and two-year-old son in tow - to Champaign and stay with my grandmother about every two weeks. That is where we would meet, talking about a variety of topics before the time ran out.