No more will I hear her voice, "Decadent? Are you busy? I start a new quilt. Come see my new quilt."
"Decadent? I 'ave four dozen egg. You want them?"
"Decadent, don't you get tired dus-ting all those book?"
Madame Francais, passed away just before Christmas, every snowstorm since, bringing memories of how much she disliked winter. And the cold. It has been very cold. "I can not go out. It too hard to breathe. You come visit. I made Monsieur tourtiere."
Between storms a pot of soup or a loaf of fruit bread made it's way to Monsieur Francais. Banana cake and rice pudding look sad, pathetic now, made with "Town" eggs. Madame's chickens are no more.
"I'm too old to keep them chicken," he says. The eyes are far away. Moist. Faded. "It's lonely." A long pause. "Yup...yup."
She taught me how to can chicken and pork. My father had just passed away. She called and said, "Geek Guy can watch your boy. Come help me do this work. You will feel better."
It is the first day of spring today. Another winter's quilt completed, she would have felt better.
(Having computer and camera issues here. Posting will continue to be sporadic until someone with more techie smarts than I gets it figured out. Mais, c'est la vie.)
That call in the night...
45 minutes ago