My father was 93 when he died on May 31st this year.
He would have turned 94 at the end of July, though the exact date was a matter of some debate in his family. When you live almost 94 years, some of the details get a little bit murky. He lived through, and fought in, a world war. He lived through the death of both of his parents and the deaths of his three brothers. He lived through nine decades. He lived through 94 renditions of every month, except June.
It’s that June that I keep coming back to, like a riddle with no answer or a sentence with no end. Continue reading