How do you think about a life? Does it start at conception? And if death is less than a hairbreadth away? Between here and there, what's in the middle, the creamy filling held by the sandwich cookies. Some days are so tedious, so disappointing you'd like to just cross it off the calendar. Some days are so glorious, you'd like a bucket-full more, please.
Eighty years. 29,200 days. Not counting leap years. My dad has been through 29,200 days.
We made what seems like a feeble gesture to celebrate his life. We held a party that got all four of us siblings and our children together for the first time in about 20 years.
There were mounds of fabulous food.
Soulful music by Monique Canniere and her guitarist partner.
It doesn't seem like enough. How do you honor the days, the years, the decades. . . the joys, the pains, the loves, the losses, the struggles, the victories?
I don't know. I can only say, Happy Birthday, dad.