Posts Tagged With: life’s lessons

Forwards or Backwards?

Lessons my Dad taught me

David and Poppa

My daughter was excited this Christmas to open up one of her gifts from Mountain Equipment Coop:  a slack line.  I wondered where she would be able to attach it in the middle of winter – now that the basement poles are no longer exposed.  Of course, we needed to explore the possibilities anyhow.  My daughter is quite driven to find solutions to problems she has.   After there was a “no go” decision for the basement, she turned her eyes to the front yard… and voila.  The street-light was a good distance from the maple tree and it would be perfect.  The snow below would also serve to cushion the multiple falls that we were advised she would have initially.

With snow pants, boots, mitts, and all the winter garb, Katya was ready.  She hopped up on the slack line with great caution and focus.  And fell.  She tried again, and again, and again.  Finally, she called it a night and unhooked the line.

My husband and I watched from the front room.  I thought about how my mom and dad would have been so excited to see her tackle this new sport.  This was something new – something that they had not seen before… much like New Year’s will be for my family and I.  I recall I was anxious to leave the year 2010 (the year Mom passed away).  I don’t want, however, to leave 2012… the year Dad passed away.  Moving forward will mean leaving the past.

I have always found New Year’s to be somewhat nostalgic.  It is a time to think of highlights, things for which we can be thankful, and things that we want to improve.  How important is it to not forget the past and to reflect?  I think it is vital to pause and reflect.  It is not easy, though.  Sometimes mistakes we’ve made – mistakes I’ve made seem unforgivable.  But these mistakes have also been such powerful lessons.  Mom taught me, for example, what not to do – and by learning from her – I was able to help Dad depart this world with dignity.

What lessons did I learn from Dad?  I’ve learned that everyone needs a purpose – no matter how old you are.  I’ve learned that that purpose can be as simple as what Dad had decided.  “My purpose, Stacey, was to make people happy.”  I’ve learned that to forgive people, you first have to be honest with them and tell them how you feel.  I’ve learned that it is vitally important to count your blessings.

It is a tricky balancing act – to not fall too far on either side of this line that sits between history and future – the stroke of midnight between 2012 and 2013… the “dash” between one’s birth and one’s death.  It is tricky, but not impossible.  And tomorrow, Katya will, no doubt, be back up on that slack line… finding her own balance – just like me.

Thanks to all of you who have supported my Dad and I through this blog – our sentimental journey.  I hope that this journey has allowed you some insight into your own lives.  And so, I will write the last post for 2012 and bid all of you, “Ta-ta for now. ”  (TTFN) from Bill Duff, (Dad) and I (Stacey).

All the best in the new year!

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

10 000 and counting: Thank-you

A toast to life!

Mom and Dad toasting at their 40th anniversary

Yesterday was Remembrance Day and to honour my Dad, Flight Lieutenant WJ Duff, I tried to promote readers to check out Dad’s WWII stories.  I made an appeal to have 1, 000 “reads”.  He never thought anyone would be interested in his stories.

Yet, yesterday, with the help of fellow bloggers, Dad’s stories reached 2, 000 of you and that brought his total reads to over 10 000:  my goal.

A million thank-yous to all of you who helped me to remember Dad and his efforts to establish peace.  What an honour it would have been for Dad to see this kind of response.

Although my heart remains heavy as it has only been since June that he has, “moved to a better address”, I know that he is a peace and thankful for his remembrance.

Today happens to also be the day – two years today – when Mom, Paula Duff (ne Malloff) passed away very unexpectedly.  It was very difficult on Dad to lose his bride of 61 years but he was a trooper.  He remembered her every morning when he got up out of bed – every meal at the dining room table – every glass of wine – every celebration – every night as he lay down to rest.  And so did the rest of us.  She was with us as Dad remembered her to intensely.  It seems that our memory of Dad remembering her is now imprinted firmly into my mind.

Mom.  Paula.  Wife.  Daughter.  Nurse.  Aunt.  Teacher.  She was beautiful.

Today – we will remember Mom.

We will, as my daughter Katya advised me, remember her for her warmth and security, for her caring friendship and the memories that will live on in our hearts.  She is in pain no longer.  She will cook and sew to her hearts content.  I think there is quite a bit of “Nana” in my daughter.

So – here’s to all of our Moms and Dads who we hold dear in our hearts.  And here’s to one day when we will all meet again.   TTFN

Categories: Family and Friends, Mom | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Where Does the Journey End?

I have not had much to say lately.

Mom and Dad continue to be on my mind – often – but I just don’t know what to write.

Maybe it’s writer’s block?

Maybe it’s grief?

Maybe it’s time to put closure to something else?

This blog, and all you wonderful readers, have been a great source of comfort for me through a very challenging time.  I’ve lost both parents in less than 18 months.  To me, this has been traumatic.  It has been a long, long, journey.

I wonder now, though, if the journey is coming to an end?

Is it time to put this blog to bed?

The condo up for sale.  I have a difficult time going back there to even check in on it.  It’s difficult to go “back” in time.

Yet, I sit faithfully in front of the digital photo frame as images of our lives fade in and fade out.  I sent some new photos to it the other day and I enjoy watching those fade in and out too.

What would it feel like to say, “good-bye” to this sentimental journey – or rather TTFN?  Letting go is the hardest thing to do, yet I think I need to know my limits and not stay too long.  I feel like the guest that never left… not knowing when enough is enough.

I need to move on – but how much of the past do we need to break from?  Does the past propel us to the future?

Does the past help us to build a foundation, yet anchor us to the ground?

It is inescapable, haunting, yet at the same time it is still my greatest source of comfort.

Should I stay or should I go now – I believe someone else used that phrase and sang a tune along with it (grin).

Maybe the falling leaves have brought this feeling of loss to front and centre.

Where is my faith? What is my purpose?  When will “this” sentimental journey end?

I guess today is a day of questions.  And having said that – maybe today begins a new “quest” for closure.

How is closure best achieved?

And the photo frame flashes images at me like pieces of a patchwork quilt.  They all blend together in an odd, yet harmonious blanket of comfort.

TTFN  – for now.

Categories: Family and Friends, Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Everything Will Be Alright: If I remember correctly.

One of the things I miss most about Mom and Dad is their infernal, eternal, and ever-so-clever words of comfort.

Mom:  “Stacey, you’ll be fine.”

(Never believed her!)

Dad:  “A hundred years from now, we’ll all be dead.  So what does it matter?”

(This one had me stumped for a long time!)

Mom:  “Just do your very best.”

(I wasn’t reassured as a child as I didn’t think that would always cut it!)

Dad: ” If they don’t like it – too bad for them!”

(Didn’t get that one at all!)


How I miss their reassurances these days.  It really doesn’t matter who you are or how confident you are – everyone needs a cheer-leader.

I have been juggling and struggling this week to find a balance between work, home-life, Dad’s condo, a visiting German student, and play.  Play-time has never been a priority for me as my family were strong subscribers of the Puritan work ethic.  Work first – then play.  And there is too much work to do to play these days.

Play. For a long time I didn’t understand that word.  I really thought it meant have fun at work.  I think I still do.  And I think a lot of my play is my work.  Others, however, have a more realistic version of what play means… I think.  And I get the impression that play means recreation.  In any case, I am struggling to redefine my definition so that everyone in my family is on the same page.

Anxiety.  This emotion seems to be two emotions attached to each other:  stress and anticipated failure.  I find myself anxious these days about a lot of things.  It happens usually when things pile one on top of another.  I forget to isolate the projects and so they blurr and give me an overwhelming sense of .. anxiety.  Dad’s condo. insurance – moving furniture, marking assignments, making muffins, cleaning toilets… you get the picture.

Comfort.  I long for Mom and Dad’s words, “Stacey, everything will be okay.”.  We offer these words to our children – or we ought to offer these words to our children… but how often do we hear them as adults?  Will everything be okay?  I know, in the long run, things always find resolution.  It’s the process that is sometimes derailing, debilitating, confusing, and frustrating.  But, as fate would have it – there is always a better resolution that falls than one that could really ever be planned.

Yes.  I miss my Dad’s casual, “Don’t worry, Stacey.  You worry too much.  100 years from now… ”

I know, Dad, we’ll all be dead.  Kind of puts things into perspective.

Patience.  Perspective.

Everything will be alright.




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

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Tic-tic-tic. Ssssslide




“This is so cool.”

“Katya you are so lucky you have a type-writer!”


For the very wise blogger (Chatter Master, RoSy? Notsofancynancy?) who advised me to use the type-writer as a conversation piece, I say to you… “Thanks!”.

How very weird is it that the same instrument I used to write my high school biology reports is now this object of wonder.

“It’s weird because you have to press the keys down so far.”, said Ben (my oldest son)

“Does it ding?”, asked my daughter, Katya.

“What is it?”, asked my youngest son, David.

How very weird is it that the same instrument I used to write my English essays is now a finger magnet?

“Can we get new tape for it?”

“Does it work?”

What is it about this type-writer that attracts so many young people?  Funny how seeing the direct results of your digital motions striking a key can produce some kind of mark that seems to be so much more concrete than a computer screen can delight.  Maybe it is the tactile nature of the keyboard?  Maybe seeing how the tiny letter blocks that strike the ribbon and leave an imprint on the page is something that actually makes sense!

Whatever the reason, Mom’s computer – that she got from her father – is a hit.

So, it will stay in the living-room for a while longer.  The paper will remain as an invitation to, “go ahead – hit me!” with a key strike.

And I will look for new ribbon.

What a hoot.  Strike that- what a hit! 

Categories: Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 14 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.


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“That moment” with Dorothee

It seemed so unattainable at first.  Her Mom said, “Stacey, you will bring Dorothee to work for your Dad.  It is easy.”

Okay – so it was not so easy.  The application  forms for a foreign  live-in caregiver changed three times in between one step of approval to the next.  I am not a good paper-person to begin with and so having to re-do application forms almost killed me.  Dorothee’s Mom said, “Stacey, it will work out.  You will see.  Don’t worry.”  Dorothee’s Mom, Tessie, you see was also anxious to have her family reunited and Dorothee was the last child she had to bring to Canada.

Dorothee landed for another employer in British Columbia.  She didn’t really understand how BIG Canada was and so, thinking that she could visit Barrie, Ontario on week-ends was logical.  She paid her fees to a nanny agency and was all set to babysit for a family of five.  As luck – or no luck depending on how you look at – would have it, the family cancelled their contact the last minute and Dorothee was left in a new country with no job.  Well – there was a job – it was just in Barrie.

To make a long story short, Dorothee’s first day with Dad was – how shall I put this – quiet.  She was shy – very young – and homesick.  What an ordeal to have flown so far away from her husband and daughter to a new country with a different language, different customs, and different food!  And what was even worse was that Dad ate POTATOES every day… not rice.

It did not take long, however, for Dorothee to find herself at Dad’s home.  She and Ana would take turns on shift with Dad.  Throughout the week while they were on duty, I never had to worry about what was happening, whether Dad was happy, or whether Dad had care.

Dorothee adopted my Dad as her own.  Her quiet manner would sometimes give way to comedy as she and Ana giggled at some of Dad’s expressions.  “Bologne!”  Dad would respond when they told them how in the Philippines they whistled for the wind to come.  They teased Dad that they would prepare a nice fish for him – and especially the eyeballs. “Yum, crunchy!”, they would say.

Dorothee involved my Dad in her life and he would advise her how she should save her money.  “Did you go shopping and spend money?”, Dad would ask.

“Yes, but everything was on sale.  I got some very good deals, father.” Dorothee would answer.  And Ana would remain silent behind Dorothee hoping she would not be asked the same question.

I would often pop over to Dad’s house for a brief visit – unexpectedly – and ALWAYS be welcomed with gracious hospitality by the Dancing Nannies.  Dorothee would always know the answer to the question, Stacey, would you like a glass of wine.”  And the dance began.

“Are you having one, Dad?”  I would inquire..

“Only if you are.”, came the response.

Dorothee knew this dance well – and the wine would already be beside my Mom’s former chair where I took up residence when I came to visit.

They were happy, the three of them:  Dad, Ana, and Dorothee.  They were a family.  They laughed together, cried together, worried together when Dad became ill, and they celebrated together.

I will never be able to thank Dorothee, however, for what she gave to Dad during his final moments.  If I could capture her the way I see her in my mind’s eye in words I would be forever grateful.  The memory that defines “Dorothee” for the person she is was created during the final day of Dad’s life.  My brother, Ana, and I were getting lessons about how to administer morphine.  I was anxious.  I hate needles and I knew where this was headed.  Morphine, in Mom’s case, signaled the end.  There were few words exchanged.  There were a lot of glances exchanged.  There was a great “understanding” among all of us that this was it.  Dorothee watched as the stint was inserted and the first needle injected.  And that was all it took.  Ana was right beside her.  And my brother and I shook.  It was was it was and it needed to happen.  Every two hours, we administered the morphine – whether it was needed or not.  That was a decision that we arrived at after much discussion and prayer.  At one point – I seemed to be in a daze.  One slips almost into a robotic state when faced with circumstances such as these.  Here is my memory. Dorothee – almost floated into the room.  She did not exchange glances, did not talk, but went right away to Dad.  She lovingly examined him to ensure that he was comfortable.  She was graceful, gentle, and her movement reassured me that he was in good hands.  Then, she tenderly pulled up his shirt – only far enough to have access to the stint – and inserted the morphine.  As quietly and tenderly as she arrived, she left.  She was angelic in her movements.  She was almost more pure energy than form.  I saw the love between my Dad and Dorothee.  He had adopted her too.  Their exchange was certainly not something that anyone else could have seen had they not had the history – but I saw it – and I was deeply moved.

This post, today, is dedicated to Dorothee.  It is her birthday today.  And she will celebrate it – too – without Dad.  This will be a first for her – it would have been a second birthday celebration with Dad … and I know she will note his absence.

Dorothee has become a part of my family now.  It is difficult to describe the type of relationship that I have with her as a result of her compassion for my Dad – but there is no other person who shares “that” bond and “that moment” with Dorothee other than me.  Dorothee is well loved by her family and friends.

Today – I celebrate Dorothee and offer her my most heart-felt, “thanks”!

Happy birthday Dorothee!  I wish others the opportunity to have a “moment” with Dorothee.


Categories: Family and Friends, Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments


Dear Dad: 

I’m struggling to move forward and I’m struggling to stay put.  

There are so many changes and decisions I don’t know what is best.  

On a good note – even in death your blog is being well received.  I guess I don’t need to tell you how many people have read your stories because I guess you already know that.  

On another good note – Veteran’s Canada continues to be supportive of you.  All the equipment they supplied to you has been gifted to your estate and I have been “loaning” it to those in need.  I feel a bit panicky that this is the right path as I am now launching into another venture I have no idea of the destination.  

My greatest consolation right now is AM- 740.  I have always enjoyed your music, but never knew whether I was listening to it for you or for me.  Here I am – listening – but I am alone.  There is that strong sense of being alone – I can’t imagine how you felt when Mom passed away. 

On another good note, the Dancing Nannies are still busy working and I’m trying hard to figure out how to help them.  They have managed to stay alone in your condo for the past week – Dorothee really missed you and felt that you were still there often.  Too hard for her to bear – she is so young.  Ana misses you a lot – she feels like she has now lost two Dads.  I have, however, gained two new sisters and we console each other often.  We still pretend that you are in your pink chair and pour you a glass of wine.  I miss those toasts, Dad.  I miss you.  

I am trying hard to think of the good times and happy things, Dad, but it is tough.  WIth whom do I share memories of Mom, the property, my childhood, our grieving over Mom?  I hate change – and I love it at the same time.  There are new opportunities that are unfolding for my family and I – but I don’t know which direction to take. 

On a cool note – Ben saved a young boy from drowning, yesterday, while he was guarding at the beach. Dad, you would be so proud!  He is such a fine young man.  

David enjoyed VBS today and his art work is extraordinary. 

Katya just “chilled” with me. 

Kevin is trying to adjust to having me back in his life as his wife.  I’m not sure if he’s thrilled with this new “bonding” or not.  I’m sure that you and Mom went through that sort of thing when you returned from postings across Canada.  Wish I could share these things with you in person, Dad.  You were always such a good sounding board.  

Brian Marlatt keeps up to date with me and my ramblings and offers his support every once in a while.  I guess Fran and Floyd were hit pretty hard by you leaving us.  How about buying me a ticket to see them in BC this summer.. I’ll take that instead of the dress?  And please don’t suggest you have enough Canadian Tire money (grin).  I don’t think Air Canada respects that currency.  

What else can I tell you? 

What should I do with your condo?  I’d love to keep it – but I don’t know that I can do that.  I have always regretting that I couldn’t buy the property from you – and I don’t want to do that with your condo. There are many expressions of interest for purchase -but it’s SO hard to say good-bye.  What would I do without being able to go “home” to my second home?  There are so many memories there.  How do people cope?  

Dad – my heart aches, yet I can’t seem to cry.  I’m happy that you are “free”. But seriously – I bought cauliflower today to make soup… and no one here eats it.  I am going through the motions .. in an effort to find peace.  

Yeah – so Nat King Cole’s “Answer me, my love”, just came on the radio.  I remember how you and Mom used to light up when you heard him.  Where was it that you saw him live?  Toronto?  How wonderful.  Where did all those velvet voices go?  

Anyhow, Dad, I’m still waiting for you to visit me in my dreams.  Remember I told you about Mom’s three visits and how her last one she hugged me?  When do I get your hug?  I could sure use one right about now.  

I know you would like me to thank everyone who is reading these posts and express your most sincere appreciation for supporting you and I in our journey to … where-ever it is.  

On another positive note, Jamie has expressed his trust in my handling of your affairs.  This takes a big burden off my shoulders and I feel more at peace with that issue now.  All you wanted, you said, was for us to get along.  We are both trying.  And for that, I know that you and Mom would be pleased.  

So, Dad, while I don’t feel so frozen anymore – I do feel that I have rambled.  How appropriate is it to ramble on on a public forum I don’t know – but there are some who have told me our conversations/ stories have inspired them to write their own family stories – and that’s good. We sure did have a good time doing that, eh?  Okay – it wasn’t fun at the time as I know I had to “hound” you a lot for stories when you were so tired.  But, seriously, you did enjoy when I read them back to you – and your grandchildren will not be able to understand their own heritage better – and know you as a person through your stories.  

To those of you who are reading this post and feel that I’ve crossed the line of insanity – you may be right, I may be crazy (to coin the words of Billy Joel).  But I am no longer so frozen.  


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Stacey:  Dad, I feel a little lost today.

Dad:  I understand.  You have to change your routines, Stacey. 

Stacey:  I don’t remember what it felt like to have so much free time, Dad. 

Dad:  You’ll find yourself.  You were always so busy – it’s good to slow down.  Mom and I always worried about you. 

Stacey:  You took over the role of worrying when Mom passed away – and you worried about everyone and everything.  I gave the girls an “investment/ money management” magazine at the Nanny- Party the other day.  They really liked it. They talked about how you always encouraged them to not spend their money. 

Dad:  They have to be wise and not spend it all.  I always had to reign in your Mother’s spending or she would have spent the whole lot on the grandchildren.  How are they doing? 

Stacey:  Actually, Dad, they are doing very well.  You’d be so proud of them.  Ben is guarding at Johnson’s Beach today and Katya is working at Canadian Tire.  She has some really good stories to tell about her experiences.  

Dad:  And what is Ben going to do about school?

Stacey:  I don’t know yet.  Do you know?  Is that what you can now do is see the plan unfold? 

Dad:  I can’t tell you that.  You’ll have to wait. 

Stacey:  I can wait – sort of.  If I went to a psychic do you think I’d be able to talk to you and Mom? 

Dad:  I can’t answer that either.  

Stacey:  It’s so lonely without you, Dad.  I have such a wonderful family but like you said, you can only really talk to those who share your stories with you.  I feel lost.

Dad:  You’ll be okay.  Don’t be impatient, Stacey.  You always want things “right now”.  That was your Mother in you.  Patience is a virtue.  I had to learn to be patient and you can too. 

Stacey:  But it’s so difficult, Dad. 

Dad:  If everyone could do it – then it wouldn’t be so extraordinary.  You take care of that beautiful family of yours and stop thinking of me so often. 

Stacey:  It’s hard, Dad.  I really miss you.  And I miss Mom.  

Dad:  We are both here for you always, Stacey.  Remember look to the morning Sun and you’ll find Mom and I’m there in the wind – just watch for the trees to bow their heads.  You remember.  Think of the happy times.  That’s how I got through after your Mom passed away. 

Stacey:  I know, Dad.. “Who has seen the wind?”

Dad:  “Neither you nor I.  But when the trees bow down their heads..”

Both:  “The wind is passing by.”

Stacey:  TTFN, Dad.  

Dad:  TTFN

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