Month of Joy: Old Things by Betsy Dornbusch
My father died this past spring. I made no announcements, attended no funerals, and cried no tears over his passing. Though Dad lived an hour away I hadn’t seen him for about fifteen years. Estranged is the proper word, but as a wordie (like some people are foodies) “estranged” always conjures up notions of arguments and betrayal, of tearful decisions, of heart-rendering loss. This was a more logical decision, a choice based on my emotional, familial bandwidth: I have a wonderful husband, two amazing kids, a mother I adore, brothers I admire, FIVE sisters-in-law and their extended families, two sets of great in-laws, seven first cousins… er. You get the picture. We have an abundance of family.
