My Dad would have been 70 today had he lived. Almost 8 years have past since the Friday night when he sat down in his favourite arm chair, after eating with Mum and had a massive heart attack.
My Great Aunt died this morning in New Zealand. She was 96 and lucid 'til the last.
In the light of my forthcoming wedding, I've been thinking about the Old Man more than usual. Auntie Margot's death threw me completely as it immediately caused me to ask the question - why so early? Why did my father not merit to live to a ripe old age?
Longevity seems to run in the family. Auntie Margot lived with my Auntie Martha, herself 96 years old. Martha's brother is 95 years old and lives in the States. They are also both razor sharp mentally - even if their bodies are throwing up the white flag. My grandfather, the brother of these two relatives, died at the age of 69 however.
I'm not looking for answers - just musing at the seemingly unfair nature of it all. Dad has been and continues to be badly missed. I cried on the phone to Mum last night. Then I went and poured myself a large glass of single malt and drank to his memory.