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Browsing Tag: anniversary

Nine Years

On Easter Sunday we marked the ninth anniversary of my dad’s death (pancreatic cancer doesn’t spare the loving). We joined the family for Easter mass, as always, and we had Easter dinner, as always. The day was filled with its own dramas, its own troubles big and small, as they so often pop up, holiday or not. My brother and I talked about it briefly when he called from the home he shares with his wife in Wisconsin. Something about the symbolism of the Easter anniversary. The depressing aspect that yep, Dad’s still dead (because despite nine years you still wonder sometimes if it’s just a bad dream you’ve yet to shake off). Jesus is risen, but Dad’s still gone. David’s dad’s anniversary was a couple weeks ago (I’ve said it before: April is super fun around here), and we hadn’t commemorated it “officially”–between David’s travels for work, and then life, it hadn’t happened. Yesterday we remembered Dad and Tom with a quick toast and moved on to the ham, because what…

Eight Years

Last Saturday, the 16th, marked eight years since my dad died, and as is now typical each spring, April always makes me feel a bit…strangled. I can’t see the blossoms open on the pear trees in this valley where we live without thinking of walking out of the hospital that day, after a week of watching and waiting and crying and waiting some more, to see that spring had happened while we were in the otherworld of the ICU. As most of you already know, it was almost exactly a year later that David’s dad died after another battle with disease, after a car accident. April? Not the best memories lately. I’d wanted to go to Arlington with my mom to visit my dad’s grave this year. But life, or really, a kids’ soccer game, and the dog, and all the other tiny details of a Saturday in the suburbs got in the way, and we ended up walking around the grotto of Mt. St. Mary’s University instead, quietly talking our way along the mountainside, stepping in between shadows and sunshine as we slowly moved under the…

Because Tin is Stupid

When David and I traveled to Ireland many, many years ago, right at the beginning of our marriage, we went with our family to Sligo, in the northeast part of the country, where one of my most favorite poets was buried. Because, you know, it’s Ireland. And what do stereotypical Irish people and an easy-going Italian-and-French guy do? Go poke around some gravesites and then grab a drink or three at the (always) neighboring pub, of course. So we did.  When in Rome, and all. But what we found, around the corner, on the side of the church, hidden by a low stone wall (of course, a stone wall. Duh: Ireland) was a monument to my favorite ol’ W.B. Yeats.  And it was magical to me.  There was no other word for it, and not just because I was jet-lagged and running on the previous night’s Guinness intake.  The way the lone figure of a man hovered there, the words engraved on the curving stone “fabric”, the picture we took of the statue wearing a Notre Dame baseball cap…oh, wait. Well, most of it was magical…