Dadless

A year ago, I was in the I.C.U. with Dad the night before he died. This year has gone so fast. And it's been so hard. The challenges, they keep coming, and I miss having Dad to talk with about them. I miss his unselfishness [Here, Al, take a piece]. His sharing. His good heart. His laughter. His confidence in me. His sharp memory. He didn't travel much in his life, but his memory was a suitcase packed with colorful stories, dialogue included. At age 87, almost 88, he could always make me laugh by recalling exact funny things said by his mother; my mother's cousin's husband, Bob [who was very smart]; his brothers; my brothers; Sis; his father and father-in-law; and Granny.

Good night.

TCOY

1. H. and I picked out a pretty fabric. We're finally getting our living room chair reupholstered. It's big, comfy, and currently shabby. We bought it with the paycheck for the first short story I sold, to Good Housekeeping, when we were newlyweds. Eight years later, the chair was recovered in Waverly fabric when Good Housekeeping redid our living room for a decorating story. Figgy and her friend Christy always sat together on that chair to watch SpongeBob, Zoey 101 and [when I forced them], old Gidget episodes from the 1960s. [I bought the DVD.]
2. Going to sleep.