Today’s your 93rd birthday. You don’t really know this, though the face you made when they put a tiarra on you to sing you HBD made me wonder what all you actually know.
You’re probably healthier than I am and I suspect you will make it to Clara’s high school graduation in 2027. I think Dad worries that you’ll outlive us. I kinda do, too.
I miss you, and while I know I’ll miss you more when you’re not of this World any longer, I sometimes wish this was over for you. I hate that my memories of the healthy you are slowly making space for the Turning Brook you.
If you knew this was happening, I wonder what you’d do. You always had this amazing ability to find the positive in everything and everyone, except Trump, and I suspect you’d find the silver lining in this as well.
I am making a stew for dinner and for the first time on my lifetime, there is no wine in your basement. To grow up with a wine cellar was kind of bourgeoisie before bougie was mainstream and I always got looks when I disclosed or it was found out that I flew to Germany regulalry and had a wine cellar. Like an imposter. And I still feel that. Like I float between the bourgeoisie and the proletariat.
So, since there was no wine to deglaze the pan I had to hit the liquor cabinet and used some Asbach Urlat and between that and the bay leaves it smells like a good time in your kitchen and I miss you that much more.
Anyway, happy birthday Mom.
The Beech House 