Dad died the 21st of July, in his own bed, in his sleep, his cats by his side. He was 87 and resisted any suggestion of assisted living or an aide or housekeeper coming in. He went on his own terms.
I feel terribly guilty, did I not do enough? Of course not, but we each do what we can and beat ourselves up over the slightest things, and the not so slight.
Trixie and Punkin are living in the basement. Harry runs from them, Oide is curious but hissy, and I don't know how to make the peace. I love the cats in shifts.
Dad's house is so full of stuff. There is a lot to sort out and the nieces and nephews want mundane crap like the TV. So many treasures. I cannot keep but a fraction, I have no room. I am dragging my feet because how can I dispose of a lifetime of wonder and love?
David is cheerful and easygoing. The SILs are being laid back. There isn't much in the way of money, the car can't be retitled for a month (stupid DMV), and the house is a wreck.
I'm going to Burning Man without half the art I usually make. I have no heart for creation, but the event won't wait.