Thirteen Years

             

 

 

          Last night I made your favorite dessert.  You know, it's the one I only make on Thanksgiving and Christmas.  It's the one with the layer of melted neufchatel cheese (low fat cream cheese) mixed with cool whip, then topped with chocolate pudding, and then with a layer of chocolate pudding mixed with cool whip also, and then chilled and served in squares, a bit like cheesecake blocks. This year, I grated dark chocolate on top. This year, I remembered to add a tablespoon of lemon juice to the neufchatel cheese. It makes a nice difference.  I think it's become a remembrance dessert of the times we spent together, while you were still here.  It's a good thing I don't make this often, because since you are in Heaven, I ate your portion. Forgive me.

              I know you are safe in Heaven. I know that you are learning things I could not have hoped to teach you while we were here together. This year, I will even admit to being a little relieved that you aren't on Earth to do battle with COVID-19 and some of the ridiculous requirements universities, governments and  some employers have placed on people.  You probably know this, but the "for emergency use only" injections for it, killed some of the people we knew.  Some of your friends have also had to get it in order to continue studying for their advanced degrees.

               Camellia, the alpaca, is now the only animal on the farm who knew you personally.  All the other animals who knew you have died, in the thirteen years since your rushed departure from here. She is well, but she too is nearing life expectancy.  I imagine you will be there for her when she makes her way to her permanent heavenly home with the others. Thank you for that. I hope the other animals are with you and my Dad.

               I love you so.  You are still one of the greatest joys of my life. We still laugh about things you said, and I still relate your wisdoms and words to people online, or to people who knew you.  I still clearly remember all our little moments together.  I still remember when we went to the political fundraiser and had to go on a hayride to do it. I had heels on and I nearly fell while getting off.  You were watching and you steadied me.  I think your steadying me is probably a metaphor for our lives together here on Earth.

               I know you are with my Dad and I know you have access to the ancestors, and that there are some remarkable people there with you. I know that your faith has always been strong.  I will always love you, wider than the oceans, and deeper than the seas, even though for these years, we remain physically parted.

 

 

 

 

There is Still Magic Remaining in This Time of Year

 

                                           Daniel's newest nephew

 

 

Daniel, 

 

 I know that you know that this week, it will have been thirteen years since you so quickly departed, the morning of the day after Thanksgiving. I still think of you every day, and wonder what your soul is doing, what you are thinking, and how free you are of concerns for yourself, those with you, and for those of us who are left on what is quite often, the cruel Earth. I do want to share some happy news with you though. Your eldest brother, who was the only one of us not to be at the house, when you passed, who came back so quickly that day, realizes how hard life without you has been, most especially for me. When he married, he and his wife did so, this very week, to help give another meaning to the week that will live in infamy for the rest of our lives.

 This week, their second child was born, a little boy. Now, it will be the week of Thanksgiving, the week you were called to Heaven, the week your brother and his wife were married, and the week your second nephew was born. I am told he is muscular and active, just as you were. I wish that you and my Dad were still on Earth, and I do miss you both, and I suspect I always will, but in cosmic terms, I am just an infant. I don't know why God called my Dad, and then in thirty Earth days called you home also. I know that everything that happens has purpose and reason, but I don't always have to like it. Happy Thanksgiving. I love you and Dad more than you will ever know.