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Thursday, April 14, 2011

Letter to a Loved One


At least one of our cats has had kittens. Her previously bulbous belly now looks like a deflated balloon, and she keeps coming up to the house for more treats more treats more treats. I wish someone would open a clinic where they allow you to bring your barn cats to get fixed. And I wish that researcher would hurry up and create that cat contraceptive she’s been writing about. I need it. I know you would have a comment or two about my problem but you can just keep that opinion to yourself, thanks.:)
Most of the lambs are in the barn now, with swelling udders (do sheep have udders?) and really bad haircuts. Actually the Farmer did a fantastic job with his brand-new shears but the sheep just look odd to me with no wool. They look naked and foolish. Lambs will be born by the end of the month. Then the excitement begins. I hope we have planned the season well and taken all necessary precautions so that the lambing will be successful and the ewes will have plenty of milk and maternal instincts to care for their young. And if they don’t, I’ll be there with a baby bottle in the middle of the night to feed the forgotten.
The snow is all gone and the tulips are coming up. I sent away for a Rose of Sharon and I’m more than a little excited about it. Hopefully “Sharon” will take over and choke out the yellow outhouse flowers that crowd my flower bed each year.
I bought a pot of salmon-pink Gerbera daisies (my favourite; probably not yours ;) to put on your gravesite today. But I didn’t make it there. Life is busy, as I’m sure you remember. And quite honestly, although we chose the perfect spot for future generations to visit and remember you – at the back of the cemetery, on the ridge overlooking the creek, where deer and birds visit (we’ve seen the tracks) - I just don’t get the feeling that you are there. I know many people go to the final resting places of their loved ones and talk to them, bringing them up to date on the goings on of their lives. I just don’t feel I need to do that.  I feel you already know exactly what’s going on in my life.
You know I’m in between jobs and a little stressed by it. When I’m writing a huge proposal for a contract, I feel you are giving me advice and putting words into my head. Checking my math on the financials. I get some sort of energy from you that pushes me to meet my assignment deadlines and boosts my confidence at meetings and presentations.
I’m sure you know we buried two of our friends this week, and that we were physically and emotionally exhausted by Friday, my 43rd birthday. The gatherings, the visitations, the funeral – it’s been three years since we were the ones standing in line receiving heartfelt sympathies but the memories are still very fresh.
You know that one of the issues lying in wait, eager to be dealt with, is that our only remaining daughter plans to move out this summer. As she should. She is almost eighteen. I’m not worried about the empty nest syndrome – the Farmer and I enjoy each other’s company and we are proud of our independent daughters. I’m just worried that she is entering that next phase, heading off into the great unknown. I know you know what I’m going through. But I sure would love to have you here, to get your opinion, your advice and your sense of humour, which always had a way of lightening the load.
I miss you Dad. Love, D. x

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