Remembering.

Ah, it happens every November 8. I get half way through the day and there’s a little niggling thing in my head until I remember. It was Dave Feeney’s birthday.

That little gut ache. I will not forget this gentle man, to whom I was married, who perished in a small plane crash a long time ago. And yesterday. And, yes, this is how young he was, barely 30. Life goes on, my life since, before, and after has been blessed, and everyone experiences that turning point in their lives and all of us must plow our way through grief at some point. But, boy, isn’t it one of life’s rotten apples when the good people leave us way too early? Not enough time for him to enjoy the fruits of a long life.