Today, the second last Sunday in August, I should be thinking about the upcoming football season or the cool mornings of a fading summer. I should be thinking about what book to read after the fantastic “Tom Lake”. I should be thinking about the upcoming October birthdays of two of my children.
Oh, I’ll make the attempt to concentrate on those, and more. But the distractions will set in. My train of thought will jump the tracks. I’ll start seeing images of my firstborn, Amy, as a toddler with messy morning hair. Out of the blue, I’ll imagine her hugging her elementary school friends maybe a little too hard. I’ll remember fishing with her and her brother, Andy, at Leaser Lake. I’ll think about the time she told me that all Burger King Whoppers have four pickles, proud of her knowledge learned on her first job. As the evening comes, this second last Sunday of August, my memory of her will be her hairless from chemo sitting in a hospital bed with a Guns and Roses poster on the wall.
Tomorrow morning is the anniversary of her death. August 21, 1989. She died just as the sun rose over M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, Texas. I think about her more on the day before the anniversary of her death than on the day itself. I think that’s because she died so early in the morning. The rest of that day was the start of 34 years of recovery, and remembrance, for me and all those who love her.
Next Sunday, the last Sunday of August, will be an ordinary Sunday. Go Chiefs! Go Nittany Lions! I’ll be well into reading my next book, hoping it’s as good as the last. Maybe I’ll do some birthday shopping for my two living kids. Or maybe I’ll just reflect on how happy I am to be alive, and healthy, at 71, and having gotten to spend seventeen years, a long time ago, with Amy.
A Semi-retired Kind of Life 