Golden.

I spent at least a week at my Aunt Reta's house every summer of my childhood.  She and my mother were close in their group of 5 brothers and sisters, and it lasted into adulthood.  And, with a cousin there exactly my age, both of us "only" children, as our older brothers were much older and out of the house, it made sense that we'd spend time there.

Their house, and it's presence, and it's smell are all burned as ideal, pleasant memories from my growing up years.  It really was one of my favorite places.  In summer, you can sit on the quiet, secluded back deck and hear hundreds of woodland birds, watching their bright colors sweep by, counting the kinds as you watch and listen. 

There were always trips to amusement parks, and lots of shopping in the city- but there was also plenty of time for picnics and the lake.

I loved it there.

That place was golden to me.

Last summer, now that we've moved closer, we spent some time there and I watched my daughters fall in love with all the same things- the house, the city, the birds, the safe walls of trees to explore in the back yard, the lake, my aunt and uncle.

We promised ourselves we'd take them back every summer.

And now, most of the birds have gone south.

And Reta is dying.

And all at once, it's as if life has turned from this

to this.

I have put off blogging about this for weeks.  I just don't know what else to say. 

And so, that's it.