I am slowly beginning to adjust to the fact that the life I lived before my Rosemary died on 9 December 2020 is one that will not return and I am now living (subsisting) on those memories.
Since she died, my idea of a family has fractured. My right-wing, extremely Roman Catholic family in Argentina (with the exception of a dear nephew) has cut me off for having had an intellectual relationship with three of the five daughters they have. My favourite is the same age, 27, as my eldest granddaughter. They met as little girls in Buenos Aires. The mother of the five girls indicated, that at my age, I should have friends my age. And that was that.
Closer to home, my eldest daughter, lives in a remote Lillooet so I don’t see her often. Her sister is having has an all encompassing job. I might see her once a week. And my two granddaughters, in this 21st century, don’t see me as a grandfather but as an old man.
At least three times a year, Rosemary and I would have hosted dinner at our home for the family and I would have cooked a roast beef. Rosemary would have made her stellar Yorkshire pudding accompanied by my beef gravy.
With her gone, and a family dinner now only (not in my home) on Christmas Day (ours was always on Christmas Eve) Yorkshire puddings are history.
Except that I now make it for myself and I share it with Rosemary’s spirit or memory. I like to think of St. Luke writing, “Do this in remembrance of me.”
And I do.
My two cats, Niño and Niña do not put any obstacles on our friendship.
