My father died quickly and quietly in his sleep last night. This wasn't supposed to happen yet. Every thing stops and you can't sit still. The processes of death come at you fast like a speeding train.
He leaves us when the mountain top garden where he built his own beloved home is greeting a new season in all the splendor a temperate climate and the hands of two passionate gardeners can muster.
One last spring he sat on the deck and looked out at things he planted bring beauty to his life.
The shock will wear off. It is the adjustments that lay ahead that are sure to bring new tears.
We will go to Florida where he was born, then return to a North Carolina mountain top and the house my father built, to the garden he planted, to heal and to be thankful for the life he led.
One final act of love and kindness, at times well hidden, but what was at the core of his soul and who he really was as a person, is a cozy little cabin high on the low spot of a North Carolina mountain top. My father welcomed the prodigal son home and built a house for him so they could be close to each other. The building contractor got one more project done before it was time to go.
We will we stroll his garden, Bonnie Brae and remember him. The sign he finally got to hang at the entry will remind us too of his mother and father and the line of gardeners from which he descended.
It is a beautiful time of year and a beautiful place, high on a mountain top, for a soul to leave this mortal coil. The dogwoods put on their best showing in years just for him. Thank you for being with us for so many good years, they say.