Today would have been Dad’s 94th birthday. He passed away shortly before his 86th.
And from my window I’m looking at trees that are bare of all life and silenced in the almost complete stillness of the morning air. An occasional bird stops by to see if they hold anything for them, but soon continues on its way, unfed. The ground holds last night’s frost to itself, dense and compact, admitting of no release. A life has gone.
And the sky is the blue of his eyes and the sun is rising still.
