This week would have been both my parents' birthdays. Dad born Seven-25-27, and mom Seven 29-29. My nifty numerical nmemonic helped me remember the date and calculate their ages.

Different styles

"Bill, it's time to go" was a familiar refrain from my mother, Iris, when my parents visited. Mom was the punctual & tidy one (who might put away the plate I had just placed on the kitchen counter before going to the bathroom). Dad was the one who would get engaged and linger: playing on the floor with his grandchildren, stopping to chat while out and about, or figuring out how something works. They were a good pair, balancing each other's tendencies.

I don't want to be a bother

My mother died about 6 years ago after a fairly short illness, on hospice care, only days after arriving home. She didn't linger. It was time to go. 

My father lived for nearly 6 years in a nursing home here in Columbia, slowly declining year by year. He seemed in no hurry to go … that is, until he got the final call. 

My mother-in-law, Lydia, died in early February this year. Our dispersed sons made travel plans for a memorial celebration to be held a month later, coming from Hong Kong and New York. Then in late February, as if not wanting to cause anyone further inconvenience, my father quietly died days before Lydia's memorial celebration. Piggy-backing family plans, we held his funeral 2 days after Lydia's. 

It was as if, at Iris' cue, he heard the call, "Bill, it's time to go."