Requiescat in Pace

Dad was fine Wednesday morning, not well when I talked to him at 3:00 p.m., and gone by 6:30 the next evening. We should all be so lucky to live such a long and relatively healthy life.

Walter Standford Yingling, PhD was born March 24, 1934 to Walter and Ruth Fry Yingling and raised in Rootstown, Ohio along with his sister Barbara. He was a company clerk in the army during the Korean conflict, and worked in finance. He graduated from Kent State University and was an elementary school principal for many years, retiring from Boardman Local Schools. He loved traveling, good food, woodworking, and sharing his opinions. He was proud of his family, kept up with current events, and was glad to have been an educator who affected thousands of students. He passed away after a heart attack on September 29, 2022. 

I'm a bit behind right now with... everything. My brother is doing a great job taking care of a lot of the cleaning and the financial stuff, but even though Dad was in a senior apartment, there is a lot of stuff to take care of when the last parent dies. It has been very odd not talking to him every day at 3:00, answering his e mails every morning, and planning the biweekly shopping trip. 

For poetry Friday:

The Laundry of the Dead 

It gives one pause, the laundry of the dead. 

The shirts, pajamas, worn out jeans. The socks,

with careful name tags, finished with their walks.

A winter coat. The dish rag that was spread

to dry out on the stove, but slipped instead

and now lies on the floor. Each empty place

I look has more. A fleece. A sweatshirt. Face

cloth, towels, the crumpled sheets upon the bed

that wasn’t made. And won’t be now. A thread

hangs from a pillowcase. I wrap it round 

my hand, snap it off, throw it on the ground, 

then stop, and pick it up, and go ahead. 

There were a lot of socks. I need some more.

I take the laundry soap and close the door.