A Good Yarn Page 0,16

or two; even when I was at my sick-and-despairing worst, he could make me smile. No one told a story better than my father. I sometimes wonder if I'll ever stop thinking about him, because it seems that he's on my mind more and more instead of less.

The adjustment to life without my dad has been hardest on Mom, though; she's aged ten years in the last fourteen months. She's emotionally shrunken - I don't know what else to call it. She's become frail and sad and uninterested in much. And she's shrunk physically, too, as if her body is reflecting her inner state, which is one of grief, of diminished expectations. In fact, at her last doctor's appointment, we learned that Mom is a full inch shorter than she was a few years ago.

The results of her osteoporosis tests aren't back yet. All at once, Mom has a number of medical problems, and I attribute this decline in her health not only to grief but to loneliness. My father was her anchor, her companion.

Although it sounds like a cliche, it seems as though part of her is missing; without him, she can't function the way she once did. I understand that, and to some degree I experience the same feeling. Dad was such a vital part of the woman I am.

When I arrived early Sunday afternoon, I found my mother in the backyard pruning her roses, fussing over them. Her flower garden is her pride, one of the few things she still cares about. She prunes the roses, she tells me, so they'll grow stronger. I consider Dad's death in the same light. Losing him helped me discern what was important in my life, what was real. Mostly, I needed to find my own path to happiness and to accept the challenges of independence. It was losing my father that gave me the courage to enlarge my life, and I did this by opening my own store - and through my relationship with Brad.

I stood in the open doorway watching her for a few minutes. Caught up in her gardening, Mom didn't hear me. She had on a big straw hat to shield her face from the sun and wore her green garden gloves. There was a bucket at her side in which she dumped the clippings. I didn't want to frighten her so I called her name softly.

"Lydia!" Mom turned toward me as I stepped out of the house. "I thought you'd be here sooner."

"So did I, but I got sidetracked after church."

"By Brad and Cody?"

I nodded. "I'm meeting them in an hour. We're going to walk around Green Lake." The three-mile stroll was good exercise and I get far less of that than I should. Brad, on the other hand, is in marvelous shape and can run circles around me. Cody has a golden retriever named Chase - because of his terrible habit of chasing after everything and everyone. Cody would probably bring his dog, but he'd been warned to keep Chase on his leash. Maybe I'd get a book on dog-training and work with Cody to teach him some basic commands. Anyway, this afternoon would be fun and I was half tempted to take my in-line skates, just so I could keep up with the two - or rather, three - of them.

My mother's hand trembled as she snipped another branch. I'd noticed the shaking more often lately. "What did you have for lunch, Mom?" I asked. Her eating habits were atrocious, and Margaret and I worried that she wasn't getting the nutrition she needed. We also worried about her medications. My fear was that some days she took more than prescribed and on others she skipped them entirely.

"What did I eat for lunch?" Mom repeated as though she needed to think about this.

"Lunch, Mom?" I coaxed gently.

"Tuna and crackers," she recalled and looked at me with such a triumphant smile that I smiled back.

Still, I had to ask, "That's all?"

She shrugged. "I wasn't hungry. Now, don't pester me by insisting I eat when I don't have an appetite. Your father used to do that. I didn't like it then and I refuse to listen to it now."

"All right, Mom." I'd leave it for now, but we'd have to check out some alternatives. Meals on Wheels, perhaps. Or a part-time housekeeper if, between us, Margaret and I could afford one. I'd discuss it with her soon.

"Next Sunday is Father's Day," Mom pointed out. "Will you take