There, wadded up in the pocket of Patrick’s bathrobe, hanging in Ivonne’s closet, in the Old Town, on the island he so loved, were his suspenders.
Memories surfaced: His dapper look, bearing his age with dignity and class.
New memories emerged: Packing the boxes, sorting out the things people wanted, the things to donate; sending shoes to one sister, shirts to another, sweaters to both; delivering to Ivonne the robe and that set of braces. Continue reading “Yesterday We Were Eight”
My sister Jennifer Meador wrote a lovely poem called My Father’s Voice which we read at the Spanish memorial service. However, she has now blocked her web site so that you can no longer access it. Fortunately, it was included in the memorial program so you can find it there if you wish.