Visiting

I see you, reading my blog and think of your country and how I wish to go there. I don’t know many languages. My version of language is menus, please, thank you, good morning, good afternoon and good night. Also where is the restroom.

Whenever one sees someone, whether family or friend, one must become familiar with the terroir, whether Greece or Italy and even Scotland, where we lived for a while. And London.

We were supposed to take a river cruise down the Rhine and Mosel rivers for Dad’s 85th birthday but he got very sick and died.

I got to see him with my husband, and my brother. Just as we got to see my mother over nine years ago in hospice. Dad and I swapped stories for hours. I didn’t wish to tire him so left for our hotel and visited the next day. He was a story-teller for all time.

Never returning until the funeral as my dear brother said he was not who he used to be in his last few days, I asked to visit the casket with my siblings a few moments before the guests were ushered in. Visiting is one of the best things one can do when one is ill or dying. Even dead. We were there for him as he was, always, for us. To those who make us proud, Dee

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