Days of Daylillies

 

 

 Dearest Daniel,

 

             This past week I was at the medical center with your nephew for some doctor's appointments, and we were early and so we waited some time. We were positioned near the area where patients and their families were to check in and give the staff their insurance cards and dates of birth.  I was in awe of the fact that so many of the really tall young men had birthdates very very near the date of your own departure from Earth.  To me, your departure and the departure of my dad are momentous life redefining events, which actually seem recent to me. It's almost as if it were about three years ago. The fact that it is the thirteenth year since your departure, and that some teens at thirteen are six feet tall is momentarily confusing to me.  I know you would be twenty-five now, but my heart, not having seen you in the flesh since 2008, tends to think of the intelligent and funny soul you were then, and not the adult you would now be. You would think my heart would take the hint now that your best friend is married. 

            Other than that, the farm remains here, and we remain on it. The animals remain here. We still have lots of dogs, sheep, the horses,chickens, and Cammie the alpaca who knew you is still here. It is one of those summers where the daylillies are so numerous that you can't possibly rescue all the flowers that grow beside the trail, in advance of the road department's mowers. I am transferring them to flower beds as quickly as I can, even in the extreme heat. It is the kind of year where the sumacs and mimosas grow faster than is healthy for them. The forest is conspiring to take over the parts of the farm we have worked so hard to keep in lawn or pasture. The road that goes back to the barns has a canopy over it, as trees from both sides lead to each other. The vegetables we planted though are drying out. They have had plenty of water but somehow too much sun.

             The Earth remains a crazy place, and not as golden or as interesting a place since your own departure.  You are loved, and your memory and my Dad's remain alive and kicking.