How’s it going?
A year ago you died. It was also the same day Mom moved into her new trailer at the Hamlet. Your timing, per usual, was impeccable.
The plan, of course, was for both of you to live at the Hamlet. I suppose that you (and God) had other plans.
We know you wanted to make sure Mom was settled okay; she is. We know you’d want Mom to do okay; she is – considering you’re gone. We’d all much rather have you back to your former smart-ass self, making us donuts out of canned biscuits, cooking weekend breakfasts, tinkering on one of your projects, baking real biscuits, and sharing a family meal with you smacking your lips and exclaiming “It don’t get no bettah!”
We miss you.
Life has gone on.
I’ve been dyeing my hair bright pink. I told Mom I wish you’d been alive to see it, because I thought you’d like it. Mom told me you wouldn’t like it. But I told her, even if you didn’t like it, you’d be amused by it. My pink hair. You would tease me about it. No worries on that front, by the way, both Mom and Edmund give me enough grief about the hair (and I give it right back.)
Bill is doing well. He spent almost every weekend last summer helping Mom out at Camp Cull. The floor is finally in the basement. This summer might see another bathroom and sleeping area so Edmund and I can stay over. He’s still working hard up in North Anson. Taking care of business.
Ed’s Dad Henry is not doing well, the Brain cancer came back and he had a major stroke. We are waiting for the other shoe to drop. I suppose you and Dot will have some company sooner than later.
Other than that, Edmund and I are doing okay. We’re working at the same jobs; I’m going to take up balloon twisting again. I’ll need to get up the gumption to find a regular gig so I can practice, as you always said “God hates a coward!” Working on it.
Mom is exercising regularly and spending time with friends. She gave Max up last fall, it was hard but he was getting to be too much for her. He was adopted out right away, so we feel good about that. Loki the cat is still a pain in the ass. Mom’s going to take him up to camp this summer instead of leaving him in Westbrook. We still meet almost every Friday for dinner. Today we’re going to have lunch at the Mall – just like old times with you.
I miss you, Dad. I miss your sly sense of humor. I miss that twinkle in your eye when I said something particularly clever or funny. I miss your insight. I miss your delight in good food and spending time with family.
I am grateful and I feel blessed to be your daughter. You always made me feel like I could do anything I wanted to. Your delight in my successes and my snark kept me going – keeps me going.
I love you.