Posts Tagged With: grief

Apartment 1001 re-visited

Looking out onto Kempenfelt Bay, you would never know anything had changed.  The waters were calm.  No Serendipity – the local tourist paddle-boat – yet, but other than that it looked just the same as it did a year ago. 

I turned to my oldest son, Ben, and took a deep breath.  It was time to leave apartment 1001.

They say your life flashes before you just before you leave this earth – snippits of my life with my family flashed before me as I walked through the patio to the dining room where we were always so careful that Dad did not lose his footing while climbing over the step to return to his pink chair after enjoying the night air.  It was a ritual almost – Mom would cling onto his belt buckle (as if she could hold him should he fall) and I would hold on to his walker to secure it from moving forward un-expectantly. 

I walked past where the dining-room table was – where so many meals were served.  Here too, was the place where toasts were made to life, anniversaries, birthdays, births… even commemorations of deaths.  But I heard joy in the voices in my head – I remember the good times, the laughter, and the oh, so delicious food Mom had so lovingly prepared. 

I walked past where Dads pink chair had once been – where David climbed onto the walker in front of Dad so that he could be so much better positioned to hop on Poppas lap and give him a hug.  The pink chair was the focus – the inhabitant (my Dad) was always the centre of attention.  Was he warm enough?  Was he hungry?  Was he able to hear the conversation? Did he tune us out to read? 

I walked past the couch – where we had danced.  I watched my daughter, Katya, twirl and spin and laugh.  I heard David giggle with delight as Nana ordered a steak and baked potato from his make-believe restaurant.  I knew she hoped that his culinary interest would continue and be her own little legacy. I saw Katya standing there, dressed in Nanas black lace dress – hand-made so many years ago.  No one but Katya could fit into that waist line anymore… but three generations had worn that dress – and Katya was the last of the lineage…

I walked down the hallway to peer into Moms room as Dad had so many times before.  Was Paula there?  Was she asleep?  Was she ironing or sewing?  The room was empty – and full all at the same time.  I thought if I looked quickly I could see her smiling at me as she was waking up from a quick afternoon rest… rarely did that happen, but it always seemed to comfort me that she could rest.

I walked down the hall to Dads room – the room where it had all ended — I expected to see him there.  But, alas, neither bed, nor Poppa were to be seen.  Ben heard me and came to see if I was okay – my 6 foot son put his arm around me and we both stood there knowing how happy Nana and Poppa would be that he grew up to be such a fine, young man.  You done good, kid, I heard my Dad say.  And with that, my son Ben and I turned around and left.  Buenos noches, Poppa – hasta manana – TTFN.  Sleep well. I love you both! 

It was odd, locking the door for the last time.  I did not cry.  They were not there.  I did not feel compelled to open the door quickly to check to see if I could sneak a peek.  Bill and Paula had definitely left the building. 

And so it was that today was our last glimpse of what was once a very happy household.  It was now my turn to provide that stability, comfort, and sense of belonging in my  own home.  I always said to my parents that my home had been wherever they were – now it is with my family and I.  Apartment 1001 is now us.. my husband, three children, and I. 

Categories: Duff History, Life's Lessons, Mom | Tags: , , , , , , | 23 Comments

Dad – where are YOU???

Where are you?

Why aren’t you answering the phone?

Dad, I have so much to tell you about my day today!

I called you  – but no one answered the phone.

Dad, I know you were only a phone call away.

Where are you?

Why did you not answer?

Dad, I love my students – they are so challenging – but you would love the stories.

I called you – but no one answered the phone.

Dad, I thought you said you were only a phone call away?

Where ARE you?

Why did you not answer?

Dad, you would enjoy hearing about the students.  I DID have to remove a student from my class today – but she is so amazing – I don’t know her story yet – but I know I will admire her for overcoming her adversities.

I called you  – but no one answered the phone.

Dad, I feel like you are so close – but so far.

Where ARE YOU?

Why did you not answer?

Dad – you would love these stories – to whom do I tell them?

I called you.

You didn’t answer.

Are you there?  Will you listen tonight? Were you with me today?

Dad – you didn’t answer.

Are you okay?


I’ll call again tomorrow.


Hope everything is okay.

You were always there…

Categories: Life After Dad | Tags: , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

The Rainbow: It Only Comes After the Storm

My morning walk with Barb began with a message from Mom.  I didn’t notice it at first, nor did I put the pieces together until several houses into our walk.  It was Barb who first wanted to just “stop” and look at the rainbow.  It was Barb who said, “this is a gift”.  Her words flooded my soul and cleansed me as I understood this was a gift from Mom.  The rainbow meant, “Stacey – it will all be okay.   You can’t get the rainbow without first having the storm.”  I felt this rainbow was meant for me.  It was not meant for anyone else in the world – just me.  Of course that is ridiculous – but at the time Mom was speaking right to my soul.  And had Barb not knocked on my door to get me for our walk, I would have missed this message.

So true does this ring in life.  How often is it that the darkest moments we flood our brains with feelings of doom and gloom.  The storm brews.  There is chaos – emotional chaos.  Last night was my storm.  The feeling of having to take Mom’s dishes away from the condo was just too much.  They are only dishes to everyone else… but to my brother and myself they are so much more.

They were carried in Mom’s hands as an extension of her love to us.  She served us literally and figuratively on those dishes.  We needed the food as much as we needed her love – and both were served in generous quantities.

It takes time to organize an emotional storm into something that is beautiful – just as it takes time for the rain and sun to produce a rainbow.

The rainbow reminded me that when one door closes, a window opens.  The dishes will be moved from Mom’s loving reach at the condo today – to Mom’s loving reach in my own home.  It’s my turn.  Mom may no longer be literally serving us – but we have been well served with her memory.



Everything about Mom was gentle.

Categories: Mom | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

I am Larger Than a Bread Basket… What Am I?

I Am Smaller Than a Breadbox

The “Vase” that stopped a million deaths…

I am larger than a shoe box, but smaller than a piano.

I can hold enough liquid to nourish a giant.

I am blue.

I have a base.

I am “open” at the top.

My lip is smooth.

I am larger in my middle than anyplace else.

I was a gift.

What am I?

If you guessed a giant brandy snifter from the 1960s – you know the decorative ones that you hated as a kid but parents seemed to love – you are right!

I emptied the pot pourri that Mom had had in it for the past 10 years in total.  There was likely a bit of the smelly mixture from 3 years ago, mixed with some from 4 years ago, mixed with some from 10 years ago.  There was no scent left – but she thought it looked pretty.

I washed the vessel carefully.  This startled me – that I was so careful.  My entire life I’ve hated this thing.  It had been the source of angst for me for years as I encouraged Mom to, “get rid of that ugly thing”.  And yet – there I was being so careful.  It’s entire fate was in my hands – is in my hands and I cannot believe that I am treated it so … yes, carefully.

Mom always loved it.  I’m not sure she loved it because of it’s beauty – really, who could love it?  I think she loved it because it was a gift from the people she worked with and loved at the Simcoe Medical Group.  It was a gift to say, “good-bye” to her when she “retired” from nursing.  I parenthesized nursing because she actually never retired  and was often back in the office filling in for nurses that went on holidays or were ill.  She loved these people.  They had grown up with her – and it was these women who also claimed to have trained all the new “green” doctors who, at that time, were just beginning their careers.

I turned the thing upside down to dry and stared at it.  Like the Pier One Import commercial, the stupid thing seemed to speak to me.

“Stacey, I have so many stories to tell you.  I have been in your life for so long – just sitting and observing.  I watched as your Dad received news about the death of his Dad… I watched as your parents received news about the birth of their first grand-daughter, Megan, then JJ, then Ben, then Katya, and then David.  I watched as your Mom and Dad celebrated with their friends during summer swims, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and Valentine’s Day.  When we moved to the condo I was moved to the bedroom where I saw as your Dad rose in the morning and retired at night.  I watched as your Mom nursed him back to health from pneumonia, from his stroke, from his hip surgery, and then throughout his Parkinson’s.  I was there, Stacey.  I am a part of their lives.  Finally, I watched as your Dad took his final breath.  I was with you – and I’m with you now.”

Okay – so the Pier One Import commercial may not have their things speaking exactly that intimately – but, crap, that ugly blue bowl suddenly became important to me.  It got to me.  It is staring at me right now as it dries upside down in the sink.

What do I do with it?  How can I dispose of this “treasure” that Mom loved so much?  It’s big and it’s blue!!!!  For Heaven’s sake.  Do I put it beside the samovar – or the type-writer or Dad’s straw hat?

Good grief.

I am larger than a bread – basket but smaller than a piano.

I am sometimes blue with grief and sometimes red with anger.

My main role in this family is “Mom” and to my husband I am “wife”.

I have a heart larger than life and a memory shorter than a snail is fast.

What am I?

…A sucker for sentiment.

Categories: Life After Dad | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

What are you worried about?

Stacey:  Dad, you should read some of the facebook messages my students sent me.

Dad:  Oh?

Stacey:  Yeah – I am flattered.  But humbled.

Dad:  Did you kick these kids out of class?

Stacey:  Maybe.  But they came around.

Dad:  So – what do you suppose made the difference?

Stacey:  Faith.  I had faith in them – like you and Mom had faith in me.   Dad, everyone needs a cheer-leader.

Dad:  I hope your Mother and I were your cheer-leaders.

Stacey:  Seriously, Dad?  Anything I wanted to do – you supported… eventually.

Dad:  Your mother was much better at it than I was…

Stacey:  She was a softer sell, Dad.  You had to hold the purse strings and I had an expensive diet!

Dad:  You sure did! And your mother was often upset that I didn’t let you do more.

Stacey:  I think you taught me the reality of life, though, Dad.  Sometimes it was good that you said, “no”.

Dad:  Your mother didn’t think so.

Stacey:  No, but if you didn’t say no I would have had to support you in your old age – and as it turns out – you remained very independent.

Dad:  Well, I tried.

Stacey:  Dad, I really appreciate that you were never a burden to me.  You were   wise beyond your years – grin –

Dad:  How do your students manage without parents?

Stacey:  They adopt me – and essentially because I have you – they adopt you too.  They love it when you come to speak – or attend on Remembrance Day, Dad.  They missed Mom this year – – and I guess you won’t be here this year either.

Dad:  Well, no.  But, Stacey, you know what to do.

Stacey:  I have lots of stories to tell, Dad.  Maybe I’ll tell one or two of your stories.

Dad:  Do you think they’ll fall asleep?

Stacey:  Dad!  Of course not – unless it’s a story that I wrote on your behalf.

Dad:  Well, in any case, as much as I like talking to you – you need to go.. and get ready for tomorrow.

Stacey:  I’m ready. I was born ready, Dad.

Dad:  Ha – Will you sleep?

Stacey:  No.  But that’s okay – I’ll sleep tomorrow night.

Dad:  What are you worried about?

Stacey:  I don’t know.  It’s just different this year.   You aren’t here.

Dad:  Stacey – I’m here.  You can talk to me any time you like.

Stacey:  Dad, people will think I’m crazy.

Dad:  So?

Stacey:  So – – well, I guess I’m talking to you now…

Dad:  Good luck tomorrow, Stacey.  TTFN

Stacey:  TTFN, Dad.  I’ll be thinking of you, tomorrow.

Dad:  And I’ll be thinking of you.  Love you, Stace.

Stacey:  Love you too, Dad.


Categories: Life After Dad | Tags: , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Stop the Bus – I Need to Get Off!

It seems that my mind races like a locomotive in full speed that just won’t slow down.  Especially at night!

I know that some of you who are dealing with estates are going to agree with me that it can feel like one step forward and ten steps back.  There is so much to do. And in my Dad’s case because he was home until the end – there is more.

The paperwork seems endless.

Okay, so I can get through things (and I am oh, so grateful to have had the summer off to “rest”) but it makes achieving closure a little more tricky.

Consequently, for the last few nights I have dreamed extensively about Dad.  Not about anything good – rather – about his death.

It causes me to wake up early and not be able to get back to sleep.

Here’s the deal: I did my very best to care for Dad as did everyone else in his life.  He passed away at home in his own bed, surrounded by loved ones.  The trigger may just have been that while trying to empty out the condo., I have had to process so many papers that Mom and Dad had stored over their years together.  One of the things I discovered in the papers is that in Dad’s medical history, he was found to have a spot on his lung.  “Aha!” I thought.  Cancer – lung cancer?  That would explain his fatigue, his lack of appetite, his weight loss, his cough… and so on.  There would not have been any change in my course of care – but for some reason I struggle with this new “revelation”.  And it seems to come through in my dreams.

Why is it so dominant in my thoughts?  I am at peace with what happened and that he passed away peacefully.  Why has this new piece of information troubled me so gravely in my sleep?  Guilt?  Ignorance?  Guilty over feeling that Mom would have known what was going on?  I don’t know.

I found this pattern to have been the same with Mom.  My post-passing diagnosis explained a lot of the symptoms Mom experienced prior to her passing.

Is this human nature?  Or my attempt to be a “vigilant” and “capable” daughter?

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not regretful or feeling that I could have done anything differently.

I’d just like to get some closure and then some good sleep.

Does anyone know what I mean?



Categories: Family and Friends, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments


Stacey:  Was that you the other night in the flickering of the light?

Dad:  What do you think?

Stacey:  Well, I’d like to think so – but I am so hesitant to trust my instincts.

Dad:  I understand.

Stacey:  So, was that you?

Dad:  Of course it was.  I am always with you.  As is your mother.

Stacey:  But – I changed the bulb on you.

Dad:  You had to  – I burnt it out.

Stacey:  Right.

Dad:  So, are you okay with everything.

Stacey:  No.  And yes.  I miss you Dad.  I miss our talks.  You and I talked so much about life – about Mom.  You and I shared stories that no one else shared.

Dad:  So – talk to me.

Stacey:  Auntie Helen is coming this week – with the Malloffs and I’m afraid that I can’t do the job of hosting that you and Mom used to do.   I don’t know how to do it without you.

Dad:  Stacey, don’t worry.  Your cousins will help.  Helen will be happy to be with everyone.

Stacey:  But this is the first time you and Mom won’t be around.  Mom wont’ be there to bake her apple pie muffins, or cook her borscht, or to just make our cousins feel welcome.  And you won’t be there to tell jokes or stories.  How can I take your place?

Dad:  Stacey, you will be fine.  I’ll be there – and so will your Mother.

Stacey: Will you make the light flicker?

Dad:  You’ll see.

Stacey:  So, you are going to leave me hanging?

Dad:  Have I ever?

Stacey:  No.

Dad:  Well then?  Play some music – dance – laugh – remember your Mother and I – and we will be there.

Stacey:  Dad – it’s so hard.  I don’t like it.

Dad:  You had us for almost 50 years, Stace. Remember the good things and be thankful.


Dad:  You have  a wonderful family.  And they will help you.  Play music and dance.

Stacey:  Okay, Dad.   Say, “hi” to Mom for me.

Dad: I will.

Stacey:  Tell her I love her.

Dad:  She already knows that – but I will.  I have to go to bed – and so do you.  TTFN

Stacey:  No brandy?

Dad:  Not tonight.

Stacey:  Tomorrow?

Dad:  I’ll have one with the family when they get there.

Stacey:  Promise?

Dad:  Okay.

Stacey:  TTFN, Dad

Dad:  TTFN

ps – Nice job on the Lobster Air post – I didn’t know I was so eloquent!  Grin.  You didn’t tell them about the lighthouse operator’s daughters did you?

Stacey:  Not yet, Dad.  Not yet.  TTFN


Categories: Life After Dad | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 16 Comments

Just a Poor Dirt Farmer’s Sweater…

Dad’s “poor dirt farmer” sweater began like this one, I’m sure.

It is a warm and cozy cardigan that goes with just about everything.

When I wear it I feel comfortable and secure.

Dad’s “poor dirt farmer” sweater felt like that to him too, I’m sure.

The original was warm and comfortable and, much to Mom’s chagrin, went with everything.

When he wore it, he felt comfortable and secure … I’m sure.

Dad’s sweater was probably 20 years old – or more, and the elbows had worn through on it.  Mom wanted to patch it – but Dad would have nothing of it – it was comfortable the way it was.

Most of Dad’s clothes were old – he was of the age when things would be worn for practical purposes – not fashion.   Again, this was much to Mom’s chagrin.  Mom was very fashionable – a bit of a diva in her time – without the attitude.

Cleaning out Dad’s closet today revealed an array of clothes that lay in testimony to this “practical” side.  I found his farmer’s hat, complete with sweat stains that were well established through his toils in the raspberry patch.  What to do with it?  Well, it went into a separate pile that just can’t be negotiated at this point.   I found golf shirts that dated back to the farm when he wore them for guests.  Yes, they may have been a little thinner and faded through use and time, but they were still functional.  “Don’t throw them out, Stacey.” , echoed in my mind.  “I don’t need any new clothes. The clothes I have are fine.”  But I HAD purchased multiple pairs of pants for him in the latter years that had an elastic waist – much easier to slip on and off in emergencies.  The Bay was not going to carry them anymore I found out last Christmas and, anticipating that Dad would never die, I bought 6 new pairs.  There they were – neatly folded waiting to be used.  sigh.   I can only hope some lucky person finds them as useful as Dad did.

Two of Dad’s sweaters came home with me.  I am wearing one now during this very rainy day.  I think I will wear them for 20 years or more.  The only issue is that I am not a farmer and so can only imagine what “my” title will be?  The Poor Dirt Farmer’s Daughter?  Ah.  I could only be so lucky.

Dad’s “poor dirt farmer” sweater began like this one, I’m sure.

It was a warm and cozy cardigan that went with just about everything.

When I wear it I feel comfortable and secure.

I feel like Dad is with me.

One day, my sweater may be a “Sunday” kind of sweater too – no holes barred!



Categories: Duff History, Family and Friends, Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

The Video Camera

It’s almost too much sometimes.

Interested in whether or not Mom and Dad’s rather vintage video-camera , of which they had taken such great pride in when it was freshly purchased, was still working – I asked my son Ben to plug it in.  The battery pack – naturally (as Mom was so very well organized) was right where it should have been tucked neatly into a side pocket.  Ben plugged the battery into the wall – rewound the film that was inside and hit play.

There he was – Dad – smiling at the dinner table.  Ben and I didn’t get the sound on right away, but we could tell he was interacting with whoever it was filming him.  The camera panned to the mirrors in the dining room – and then back to Dad.

Then, it happened.  The camera moved into the kitchen.  There was Mom.  Cooking.  She was always in the kitchen cooking.  This time, however, not only was she wearing her neck brace, but also her body brace that supported her spine.  It was at this time in her life when she really struggled to walk.  Her spine had disintegrated through loss of calcium to the point where it was literally collapsing on itself.  There she was – cooking.  I remember so well how challenging it was to let her do that.  Any outsider would have scolded me for allowing Mom to cook.  But Mom found meaning and purpose in cooking for her family. To take this away from her would have been to sentence her to death.

BTW:  Shortly after this clip was filmed she received a “cement” injection that filled in her spine and allowed her to walk for several years afterwards without pain.

The movie-maker moved down the hall to capture Mom and Dad’s first care-giver “Rou” in the midst of trying to organize Dad’s bathroom drawers.

This must have been taken at least three years ago.

Oh, how time changes all.

Rou has moved on – and so have Mom and Dad.

How utterly wonderful it was to find this clip – and at the same time how utterly painful.  The images have immobilized me.  I am useless today – other than to express my experiences in this post in the hopes that this experience will help someone else to feel they are not alone.  Or maybe to help me feel that way.

How strange to have been in their home only this morning… no Mom.. no Dad.  And to see them in the same location this afternoon on film.  I don’t know if film is good or bad at this point.  I’m sure that time will offer me a more clear perspective on the truth of the matter – but my brain is fuzzy today – here and now.

What do I do with the camera?  That has pretty much been my rate-limiting-step today.  It has been the window to memories so far.  It has defined itself as quite useful – but disabling at the same time.

The camera will sit in the front room with the collection of other “don’t know what to do with items” until I get further “clarity” of mind.

Mom and Dad’s winter coats… I was able to pack into a bag headed for the Salvation Army today – but the camera will sit in limbo … for a while anyhow.

Really.  Sometimes, it is almost too much.

I know tomorrow is a new day – and if I’m lucky – I’ll see Mom in the sunrise and Dad in the sunset – and my life will be in synchronicity once again.


Categories: Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

One Day It Will Be My Turn

I’ve had many sleepless nights since my Dad passed away, trying to decide what to do.  The questions seem so big and so endless.  The one question that has perhaps plagued me the most is… What do I do with his house… with Mom’s house… with the Dancing Nannies’ house… my quiet sanctuary and get away? This was the oasis where we met – our home away from home.  This was where meals were prepared, conversations were had, and sleep-overs abounded.  This was where Ben and Katya and David learned how to swim, to cook, to play cribbage, to dance.

Do I keep my father’s house or sell it?

Keeping it allows me to hang on to Mom and Dad a while longer.  The house is “their” home and it is full of memories.  How can I sell it and allow someone else into their own piece of Heaven? How can I move things that my Mom so carefully put into place so that it was “perfect” for her own style and taste?  The image of the “beautiful lady” that hangs on the wall screams a memory to me.  Mom loved this print that she saw hanging in Auntie Helen’s house so much.  Auntie Helen bought her a copy of her own and sent it to Mom.  Every morning at the breakfast table, Mom would admire the beautiful lady.

How can I move the Royal Dalton figurines that Mom had collected over the years?  They are a collection. Each holds a memory.  One came from Mom’s mom and was so carefully guarded over the years.  I remember that wherever “Autumn Breezes” was I had to be very careful to not knock it or bump it.  Every time I dusted I was cautioned, “Be careful with my figurines”.  Each time someone sat in the chair next to them, they were told, “Watch your elbow”.  In spite of every precarious living movement that family and guests made – the figurines have survived.  Here they sit – on the bureau – all together.  How can I pull them apart?  How can I randomly decide their fate?

The white birch painting by Jacqueline Algee… maybe she wasn’t so famous, but she was a friend of Mom and Dad’s.  Her paintings are wonderful.  I remember Mom commenting, “How beautiful those birch trees are!  They remind me of the farm.”  Her favorite tree was the birch.  How can I take it down from the wall facing her chair?  Will it be appreciated as much in any other home?  Do I give it to someone else or keep it so that it can re-create discussions in my own home with my own family?

And those dishes!  They are so carefully tucked away in the cabinet.  “They are hand-painted, Stacey. You can’t buy those dishes anymore.”, I remember so clearly was Mom’s message to me.  “One day, they will be yours.”  I’d really rather Mom than those dishes – but somehow the dishes had out-lived her. What will they be when they are removed from that cabinet?  Where will they go?  Will they bear witness again to so many wonderful dinner conversations as they did in our family growing up?  Will they sample such good meals as my Mom prepared for them during Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter?

The stereo cabinet.  What of that?  When Jamie, my brother, was younger he was into wood-working.  This cabinet was a gift from him to Mom and Dad.  Dad had cut down this beautiful tree when we lived on the property – black walnut – or cherry?  I don’t really know as Mom changed the type of wood each time she told the story of how Dad chopped the tree and then took it to a local mill to have it dried and cut. Jamie took the wood and formed it into “this” cabinet that Mom cried over when paramedics moved and broke it while trying to get Dad to the hospital after one of his episodes.  Tessie’s husband fixed it – months after Mom’s death – and it just felt like all was right again.  On top of this stereo cabinet sits a display of Mom and Dad’s travels:  the man from Quebec, the character from Marguerita Island, the Samovar from Mom’s brother who brought it back from Russia… and finally the photos of our kids growing up.  My children were displayed on the cabinet and Jamie’s on the end tables.  How can I split up this display of memories?

I went to the house yesterday (to be honest it is a condo, but it feels more like a house) as the first step in my journey to negotiate the decision.  I was alone.  I poured Dad a glass of wine and had one myself.  His pink chair was gone and so the ceremony didn’t seem quite so real.  I walked into his bedroom, but the sheets were piled on the bed beside his and the comfort quilt from the church had been removed and washed and so the visit didn’t seem quite so real.  I walked into the pantry where “Mom” had stored everything in God’s little acre, but some things were missing and there were empty spaces where the food steamer and the salad spinner had been – and the pantry had seemed to loss some of its charm.

After some time, Ana walked in.  And it suddenly felt much more like home.  Could it be that it was not the contents of the house that held the meaning as much as the people?  Where were Mom and Dad?  They seemed to be in the print, the figurines, the dishes… the cabinet.  But when Ana walked in – I knew they were still living in her and in me and in our relationship that had been forged through their lives.

My father’s house will be sold and the contents will be moved and the move will be very painful for me.  I will be closing the door on apartment 1001 on day soon.  I will be walking down the hall to Dad’s room, pausing to peek into Mom’s room to see if she is still asleep.  It will be, one day, my turn.  Image

Categories: Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

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