Mom and Dad were married 64 years. And if you wondered what their secret was you could have asked the local florist - because every day Dad gave Mom a rose which he put on her bedside table. That's how she found out what happened on the day my father died - she went looking for him because that morning there was no rose.
I can get very philosophical and ask the questions Keats was asking as a young guy. What are we here for? What's a soul? What's it all about? What is thinking about imagination?
