Forty-five years ago today, William P. Kenny, Sr. died. He was roughly six and one half months past his fifty-seventh birthday. Half of his six children were grown and off on their own, plotting their course in the world. Kara, Jill, and I were still home with him and the indomitable Joanie K.
It was one hell of a way to start the summer. It one hell of a way to start adulthood.
Forty-five years. An eternity and an eye blink. Same as it ever was.
-AK
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