Birthday

Elizabeth would have done something for her dad on his birthday.  The day went by with her in the back of our minds.  The last time she could she made a lovely card with pictures and sent it to R through me so that I could print it out and give it to him.  There were colorful small drawings and her tiny delicate script and a mind at work that let him know she loved him. 
Posted by on

1 comment:

  1. AnonymousSeptember 12, 2010 at 10:06 PM

    Dear Patty,
    The birthdays, the holidays, the family occasions must be so bittersweet. Wishing you both peace as the "new normal" wears on.
    Claire

    ReplyDelete

Please leave a comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry