In 1958, my brother Billy was killed at a crosswalk on his way to Altamont Elementary School. It was and will always be the worst day of my life. I see his picture on our dresser every morning. As we leave Altamont on Route 146, we drive by his lonely grave in Fairview Cemetery as we did this morning. Sadly, life goes on but not for all.
It does not matter my wife and I have been married 43 years. It does not matter we were the primary caretakers for my folks and retired earlier than we wanted to. It does not matter my father died a long, horrible death from Alzheimer’s or my mom, a blind but feisty woman, died of heart failure at home as my father did under our family care.
It does not matter my wife is a three-time cancer survivor. It does not matter she was recently diagnosed with breast cancer from previous radiation therapy years ago …