today's my father's birthday. he died 9 days after his birthday last year, on the last day of winter. the damn damn thing is, it was on that birthday that I realized that I could no longer care for him. it was too much for me, it was too much for Beth and Erin. and clearly, he was letting go. he wasn't eating or drinking, he wasn't talking. I was there, not my brothers, when my father was put in the ambulance and taken to hospice. you will notice the hurt in my words. caregiving seems to be a job in which you never feel like you did enough. Beth brought an autistic child along in the world, most of the time on her own. it should make you feel good that you accepted the responsibility and did your best. it doesn't work that way, tho. what sticks with me are those few times when I was frustrated with my father, when his confusions overwhelmed me. I should remember that most of the time I was patient, compassionate, understanding, that I saw the losses he was enduring and did my best to help him. yesterday, Beth mentioned that we should get some planters and start a container garden on the balcony. I felt sad because I used to help my father with his garden. he started vegetable gardening after he retired. I used to assist him in his later years. as he became physically less able to get about, I started doing the garden work. which worked out well, because he particularly enjoyed starting the seeds and tending the seedlings. and I discovered I enjoyed digging around in the soil. he used to anticipate excitedly the arrival (in December) of the seed catalogues, and the starting of seeds. it got, however, so that he was starting them way too early. and then it got so that he no longer could do the work properly. where I used to ask him questions how to proceed, suddenly (it seemed) I was now advising him. it was a strong memory, yesterday, when Beth brought up the planters, of carrying tomato seedlings around for my father, fetching water, asking him when I can finally plant them in the earth. and so forth. it's a mild, windows open afternoon, and spring is possible, even probable. it's okay to feel sad sometimes, it's okay to move on.