I should write more.
The childhood home has been sold. I’m in denial. I imagine that they haven’t told her. How convenient that she has Alzheimer’s.
I was there just last year in July. I didn’t know it would be the last time because there was absolutely no fucking way it would.
It had been short. Driving multiple hours to stay about one, is not very efficient.
It was amazing though. The weather was pitch perfect. You know, temperature just right. A bit overcast so that it doesn’t slap you too hard. Well balanced breeze. Driving window down, feeling the coolness when passing by trees and thick French foliage.
Parking as usual. Opening the gate as usual. Stairs up. Door open, double French doors open. She is serene, watching “my TV”, as she always loves to say.
I give her four kisses and hold her hand. She is radiating. 89 years old, in her squeaky clean house that she has been living in since what, 1974? 51 years. She probably left it longer than 2 days a handful of times. Raised 5 children, 1 foster kid (me), took care of a dozen grandchildren, great-grandchildren, dozens of kids as a mini daycare center for a 300-people village in the middle of France. Hosted a billion parties and family reunions. Her house.
I refuse to believe it happened right now. Total denial.