Three years on

Three years ago today, my Dad celebrated his last birthday.  Although he held out some degree of hope of more time after his brain cancer diagnosis, I think he knew that this was the last time that he and Mom would celebrate their consecutive birthdays (Feb 9 & 10.)  The only reason for using "think" instead of "know," is that Dad chose not to talk much about his death, at least not to us "kids."  He talked about his illness, and how grateful he was for all that God had given him--a gratitude that was displayed more emotionally in his last months.

 

He shared more with Mom--they clung together often in the evenings on the couch that winter, cherishing each moment, each hug, each sighting of birds returning with the spring he had feared he would not see return

 

Dad started the 1st day of his 72nd year (a year he did not get to finish) with a stack of pancakes topped by a birthday candle.  He wore his favorite sweatshirt--"Compost: a rind is a terrible thing to waste."  I sang Happy Birthday to him before preparing to head off to work.  He and Mom then read from Mom's grandmother's large print Bible.  Dad read slowly, deliberately, assuredly; he prayed aloud just as steadily and just as thoughtfully for each of us in his large family.

 

We'd had a full family party the day before Dad's birthday--celebrating Mom on her day, and Dad every chance we had.  Izzy had come down from NC for the Bday weekend.  We crowded into their living room, spending Saturday night looking at Dad's slide collection, as he narrated the stories my brother (B1) and I had managed to put in order.  Dad could no longer focus for the hours needed to arrange loose slides by years, put into trays, flip as needed--and flipping is always needed during the slide show.  But he could recall great detail about the people and events pictured, especially the cheesecake swimsuit pix of Mom--the woman he adored.  His love for her showed on their birthdays, in their quiet times, and as he stared into her eyes just before they closed forever.

 

I still miss him terribly.