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.