Tonight home from work, a letter waits for me on the kitchen island. Return address Seattle. Oh! it must be from Aunt Glor. I love, love, love Aunt Glor. She makes me laugh, she believes in me. But the letter is not from her, but from cousin Leslie. Aunt Glor died on February 22, 2013. She shared a birthday with my Dad. This dying business has got to stop. Enough already.
Later this evening in our room folding laundry. Melanoma Man, a bit discouraged by the cascade of medical bills raining down upon us: " I can't remember what I came in here for, but I saw the laundry, felt guilty for doing nothing and my wife doing everything, and I started folding."
Me: "you are doing the most important thing of all, spending time with your sons, talking about baseball , legos, books, whatever they want to talk about."
Melanoma Man: "Yeah, but that's just being a Dad."
Me: "Oh, so did your Dad do that with you?
Melanoma Man: "No."
Laundry Thief: "My point exactly and that's why I love you."
Melanoma Man: "love you too, don't ever forget it."
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