Nothing good can come of a 6 a.m. phone call

Years ago when my Grandmother was still alive a 6 a.m. or even a 3 a.m. phone call meant that Gram had gotten her time zones mixed up or she had called the wrong granddaughter. Since she passed away, 6 a.m. phone calls can only mean something (as Rosie says) “very not good” has happened.

When the phone rang at 6 o’clock this morning,  I just repeated to myself, “Let it be a wrong number. Let it be a wrong number.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t. How I wish it had been.

My father passed away unexpectedly.

He was prepared with all the necessary paperwork and insurance policies, but he certainly wasn’t ready. Nor am I.

I am at least able to say that I spoke to him a few hours before his sudden death. My last words to him were “I love you, Dad” and his were “I love you, too”.

Today has been a very hard day, here so far away.

I came home this afternoon only to find a post card, just delivered, from my father. It’s from a local restaurant where my father likes to eat breakfast and hold court with his local friends. He wrote in his careful script – “You are invited for breakfast. Love, Mom and Dad”.