Monday morning I woke up to a phone call from my mother. Pepère died last night...
I packed up the cat, emailed my boss, attempted to pack clothes (5 pairs of pants, 2 sweaters and 1 shirt...how will that work?), and hopped in the car. Pepère had had a successful hip replacement followed by an equally successful heart attack. It’s unfair to go in to relieve a pain, succeed in relieving it, then be blindsided by your broken heart.
He’s here with my Memère in this picture, just after they were married, 67 years ago. At dinner on Monday, she whispered to my mother, “I keep wondering why he’s not coming to dinner. Why isn’t he sitting down to eat?” She only has moments of lucidity, and that, surprisingly, was her way of saying that this would be an adjustment, that she will wonder where he is for a long time.
Their last name is Francoeur, loosely translated to French Heart, and it was his French heart that took him away.