Some weekends are invoke more memories that others. This was one of those weekends. Yesterday was Father’s Day, and noticeably absent from today’s blog entry is a picture of my father. I have some, but they show Daddy as a feeble man, not the way I want to remember him. Yet—how can I forget last Father’s Day in 2015 when he hugged his granddaughter and grandson and held the hand of the other grandson and told them that he would not be with them next Father’s Day. His words were prophetic. He left us on August 12, two months later. Yesterday, I grieved anew for him.
This morning, as always, I went into the kitchen to make the coffee-flavored creamer (yes, it’s the creamer I like rather than the coffee!), and in my window sill is an African violet I picked up at the grocery store last week. My husband’s grandmother, who passed away in August 1984, the year we married, had windows full of violets. She absolutely loved them. Granny was a petite woman, as it seems many grandmothers are. Not only did people gift her with violets, she would root them by breaking off a leaf and sticking it into some potting soil, and she would have a new plant. I did not necessarily learn how to do that. In fact, I may or may not be able to sustain the one I purchased in her memory last week. But I will try.
I stood at the kitchen sink for a moment, noticing how the light filtered through the dirty kitchen window and through the screen.
Although I didn’t know Granny that long, and fifty seven years is far too short a time to spend with Daddy, I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for both of these people.