Every time I went on a hike with my Papa, we counted wild flowers. At three years old, my short legs desperately moved trying to catch up to him. Now his old legs fall behind. On these walks we would run to the nearest bench in sight. The first one was the prince or princess and the last one a rotten egg. Today I was the last one out of the pool during lane swimming. The lady that swam next to me stood drying herself at the edge of the pool. As I got out she said, “last one out is a rotten egg.” She must be related to my family. Who says that?

    My Papa doesn’t get out as much as he used to. Five years ago he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. Up until then, he jogged around the golf course, went to the YMCA, hiked up a mountain once a week, and participated in a road bike club riding 80 km twice a month. It breaks my heart to see him less active. My Papa and I have this connection. I was the grandchild that got the largest piece of his soul. I assume everyone has a family member they can relate to above all others.

    I have been taking some photos of flowers this summer, and with every click of my camera I think of my Papa, who never made it to the Sierra Nevada Mountains.