Having lost my father at nine, I met the news of the sudden death of my husband with terror. It brought back every painful horrific memory of my childhood, from my mother selling our farm and giving our black lab, Sport, away, to my leaving my best friend Hilary behind, and moving to a town 45 minutes away and into an apartment complex where there were no children, but only the sounds of bees buzzing and Water Gate droning on and on through the open apartment windows, all of that long summer.
My mother’s garden, the dozens of barn cats, our dog, the sheep, the cows, the horses, the hay bales, the frogs croaking at night in the pond surrounded by mint and black berries, the squirrels outside my window, the raspberries by the back door, the flowers and hazelnuts, and on and on, were gone.
A recipe for what not to do.
My children will stay in their beautiful safe neighborhood with their sweet friends that we have known since they were born. They will be at their cabin in Tahoe skiing at Christmas like they have always done. And we will go from there.