It is a spectacular day in early November. The maples that line the long driveway to our neighbor’s home turn russet and the sheep layer on their winter wool. The grass is starting to sprout its winter green, replenishing the spent and trampled hay, still unmown and neglected. The air is so warm, the sky is so clear. We relax on our deck as though it were summer.
It has been a month since my father passed away, and every time I am here, I long for him, now more than ever. He instilled in me my love for the land, and I wanted to share this with him.
I bought this land and built this home with him in mind, just after my mother passed away. It might have been possible, I thought, that he would uproot himself from Pennsylvania and move to the Redwoods in Mill Valley. I imagined Annie and me escaping from the city on Saturday mornings, stopping to pick him up on our journey northward on 101. How we would enjoy our country drive together to Point Reyes!
But he was able to come out here only once, before his stroke. He leaned on the sturdy fence that lined the horse pasture and took in the landscape. “It’s perfect,” he said.
Later, on our phone calls made so difficult because he had lost so much of his ability to speak, he asked about our building progress, and I sent him photos occasionally. Why didn’t I move him out here sooner? All too late, and yet another regret.
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