Four more great grandchildren born. Two retirements, mine and hers. A high school graduation. Our mother - who no longer remembers Dad - was cogent then.
When I think of it in those terms, it feels like a very long time ago.
I sit on the corner of what has become my "writing couch," the cushion on one side slumped from overuse, and jot these lines. Dad's art hangs on every wall within my sight - foyer, front room, dining room and hallway. Paintings and drawings. Perhaps that's why I always gravitate to this spot, rather than my nice, quiet study, with its desk, supplies and shelves of books, its closing door.
Each morning I rise in the dark - as father, always an early riser, used to also do. I settle into my corner with a cup of coffee, open my notebook or computer and face that blankness. And each morning my respect for him grows. He was a productive artist as long as eyesight and manual dexterity allowed.
I try to imagine how I will be in 30 years, when I am 92. I hope that I am still rising early, still making sense of this life, of the world, still searching for meaning and sometimes grasping it through art and expression as my father did.
It feels like a long time since my father died. And like no time at all.