He turned his eyes to the road that wound across the long meadow and disappeared into the trees before dropping down into the valley below. The snow c...used the trees to drift in and out of focus like a white curtain pulled temporarily over a stage. The trees were almost black against the dim light, and he stared for several minutes before he could make out the shape of a rider on horseback coming down the road. Only the fact that both horse and rider were covered in snow afforded enough. On August 31st, just seven weeks after my mother was buried, my father entered Room 255 for the first time. He immediately made it his own, from paintings he had saved from the first house he and my mom had shared, to the many books he had collected over 40 years. On the sunny bay window he raised his favorite flower, the Portulaca or ‘Porchalaca’ as he had called it since the lovely blooms of various hues had graced his front porch for many years. I was very proud of my father during this. More

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