Into every life a little rain must fall…

Therapeutic Misadventures

We talked of tragedy today. I told him about losing my brother, Duncan. He would be 62 years old now and he has been gone 29 years.  It seems hard to fathom when I put numbers to his life.

My friend is 82 years old. His view of this journey is so much broader than mine. After a bowl of berries with cream and a cup of tea, he wanted the comfort of his electric lounge chair. We settled down; he with his feet up and a cozy Irish wool blanket, I cross-legged on the end of his hospital bed reading, again, Mark Twain’s Diary of Adam and Eve. I listened to his gentle snores and silently turned the pages. He roused, without opening his eyes, readjusted the chair and went back to napping. After several of these readjustments, he sat himself up, looked over at me and said, “I…

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