No metaphysician ever felt the deficiency of language so much as the grateful. Caleb C. Colton
Many thanks to each and every one of you who has reached out to me since Berkley’s death. Please know that every word you have written me has been read and re-read and surely will continue to be for some time yet to come.
Sadly, I don’t have the words to adequately express how thankful I am for your friendship and support during these painful days.
So I’ll say it with flowers as the old ad campaign used to urge us.
The garden is slowly coming to rest, but there is one last flush of beauty.
The garden knows that the end is drawing near, and there is a defiant beauty to the botanical last hurrah of the chrysanthemums and asters.
Dear Berkley was born on my birthday. He died on my daughter’s. Why I find this so comforting and oddly significant is hard for me to say, but I do.
Another great comfort to me is how many of you grew to know and feel fond of my dear old Berkley-boy.
Again, dear friends, my inexpressible thanks to each and every one of you. You have helped me immeasurably.