Of got these out of order, inadvertently. As Mom struggled, and faltered, my mind wandered constantly, to my past with her. Without her. With my family. The weeks just went by in a blur of loss, and me trying to find sense in all of it.
November 29th would have been my father’s 71st birthday. He was thirty-three years old when he died, thirty-eight years ago, so he’s now been dead several years longer than he lived. In my lifetime, those numbers are even more skewed: I had him in my life for ten years and have not for thirty-eight. I’ve spoken of him before in this blog (see Death and All His Friends and Me in the Key Of); he was killed in a car accident when I was ten. My life has been defined as much by the time before that event as the years that followed.
In my mind he is young, just as I am. My memories are of a father who was playful and adventurous. He taught me to whistle through a blade of grass, how to fly a kite, why any day in the woods is a special day…
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