Today, is the second anniversary of my Dad’s death. It hit me hard this morning, as I looked at the clock with my normal morning blur, or pre-coffee. This was the time that I had went in to get him up for the day and knew it was the day he would leave us. Of course, me – the one that wears her heart on her sleeve and her emotions on her face – starts to cry from the sorrow of missing him. Then, I hear a chuckle and “I’m still here, I haven’t left” and felt a blanket of soothing warmth and love envelop me and I felt much better. My plan is to go to the cemetery and have a milk shake with them, strawberry, his favorite, not mine. But I realize that it feels fine to make such a simple sacrifice to the man that raised me from the time I was 2 years old until he passed when I was 59.
I placed the summer plant at their “place” yesterday. I envision Mom oohing and aahing over the pretty foliage, with coming delight over the flowers stalks yet to come as with a Coleus. I also envision my Dad poking at the foliage, muttering, “a waste of money”.
They were both quite thrifty, each accusing the other of being a hoarder; In a way, they both were, and all you had to do was look at Mom’s house inside, and Dad’s garage inside to confirm it! 😉 But as children, born in the 30s and 40s, it was quite common for that generation to keep things for later use. I find even myself holding on to things, not because it is tough times, but rather because my parents still had that influence from their parents, living through the depression and ensuing WW2, but because my parents passed it on to my generation as what they were taught. I get it.
Confession time: My hoarding comes out in my crystals, and this seems like a whole new post!