Dear Libby,

Today I did something I have not done since we lived under the same roof. I sang while doing the dishes. There was no music. The audience was limited to the cats and kitchen appliances. All were kind as the words of my favorite songs slowly rose from a light hum broken with fragments of refrains to long songs written decades ago.

The last time I sang these songs Grandpa was dying. He was restless. The Social Worker had told me he probably did not realize he was dying and was fighting against the inevitable. He mumbled and twitched as he fought against eternal sleep. I held his hand. Weeks ago, before he lost the ability to speak, he made me promise to “never stop worrying, Jane. Never stop.” I knew he was worrying. He was thinking of Grandma. Of driveways to be shoveled, grass to be cut…