My brother-in-law lost his pop this week.
So did his brother and sister.

Hank wasn’t young, and he wasn’t well, but death still knocks the wind out of you
 when it jumps from behind a corner like that.

Hank was an effusive, eloquent guy who still wrote old fashioned letters.
The kind that require a stamp and an envelope.
I have a feeling he’d like old fashioned poetry, too…

Now When the Number of My Years
— Robert Louis Stevenson

Now when the number of my years
Is all fulfilled, and I
From sedentary life
Shall rouse me up to die,
Bury me low and let me lie
Under the wide and starry sky.

(Read and listen to the rest here…)

Thinking of you all, sweet family…