A weekend thinking about my dad. Father's Day yesterday. His 81st birthday the day before. The publication of my essay in the Sunday paper about finding a home in Maine, his own indisputable home, even for the 45 years he lived elsewhere. Picking lupine from my garden for flower communion at church, the flower that blanketed Monhegan Island's meadows on the weekend we shared there when he was so ill more than a decade ago. He would have loved my article, he would have loved the lupine. He should still be here. But in his absence, I remember him with love.
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