My father is dying.
We are both fighting this eventuality.
My dad was born two years prior to the super nasty year, 1929*. He has just one sibling. Unlike Jim and I who have 4 siblings each and a plethora of nieces and nephews.
Aunt Angela’s Awesomeness outshines the fact that she’s my only one. We call her /ahnt/—at least I do—courtesy of our Boston born mama.
Gardens or psychology?
Statistically, I know, he knows, we all know he can’t live forever. Yet we never discuss it. Whereas my aunt, his younger sister seems to welcome it.
She is the beloved gardener of so much more than her meandering verdant garden . Her backyard was a peaceful haven of greenery, flowers, a bit of grass for her dogs, Pepper 1-5, cool rocks and “old rusty stuff.” Her garden—like my aunt herself possessed an always -blooming-rarely-weedy kind of grace.
Have I told her how special she is to me.
Like my dad she’s on the other side of her story and the average U.S. life expectancy.
And I just missed her 8x Birthday… again.
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