As I was saying a final goodbye to my beloved gardens last month, I was thinking of you, my friend. I knew you would be doing the same thing as I, primping and pruning every leaf, every plant and telling them how happy they have made me over the years. As a few neighbors walked by, they asked why I was bothering since I was leaving the next day… I told them it was the least I could do since my gardens had given me so much joy over the years. I left with a smile on my face. You will, too.
BTW, I love that you and Emily left treasures to be discovered by the little boys, I can imagine the squeals of delight!!!
Am I a shell of a person? Maybe. I wasn’t always like this though. This is what happens to a person who views mental illness as an outsider. I didn’t create this person or birth them. They are nothing more to me than strangers who just unluckily share the familial DNA with me. Nothing more. I have not known my sister since she was 12 years old which made me 8. I lost out on a sibling and a friend. The kinds you see in movies and the kinds my friends always had. Someone to keep secrets with, someone to emulate and guide you. I had none of this. And my beautiful parents lost out on having a daughter.
That pitch is the living connection to it all: where the league titles of 1951 and 1961 were finally won, both against Sheffield Wednesday; the left wing where Gareth Bale tortured Inter Milan's Maicon in November 2010; the goalmouth where Tony Parks saved a penalty from Anderlecht's Arnor Gudjohnsen to win the Uefa Cup final in 1984. The penalty boxes where Steve Perryman scored twice against AC Milan in the semi-final of the 1972 Uefa Cup; the little patch where Terry Dyson played a one-two with Danny Blanchflower before lashing in his third goal against Arsenal in August 1961.