May 11, 1991, Dad died in his apartment. The part of it that I want to talk about today is the gray zipped-up body bag (head down) on the dolly. The funeral guys were about to wheel it out the door when the bell rang. The florist was standing out there with two big bouquets for my mother. One was for Mother's Day the next day, and the other was for her birthday the day after that. It had lilacs, which bloom around then, and were one of her favorites. Both bouquets had cards signed to her by Dad, who did things in advance, obviously.
It was a little scene, as the funeral guys slipped the dolly out the door, and my sister, who had been explaining to my demented mom that Dad was in heaven (or something), suddenly had to explain to her how these flowers were from him. The aides quickly put them in vases. Richard put his arm around poor Mom and tried to talk to her, gently, but she would have none of it. Those flowers proved to her that he was alive, and for the next 13 years, she never acknowledged his death.
That's all for now.
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