Nov. 18, 1925--Jan. 18, 2003



You were the only person who knew how to push all my buttons.  You knew how to cheer me up when I was about to cry and how to make me hopping mad—literally.


You weren’t the type of person to talk about yourself or your feelings.  Me either.  I guess that’s why I think we understood each other pretty well.


Who’s going to get mad at me when I read the comics out loud? 

Who’s going to make me do the puzzles in the newspaper?

Who’s going to jokingly tell me to get out of the bathroom or tell me to go to bed in that fake gruff voice?


We never talked about the serious things, but we didn’t need to.  We both knew what we felt.  I love you.  That’s something we hardly ever said, but we showed it every day—even when we argued.


I’m going to miss you.  It’s too quiet at night without you watching TV and your oxygen machine humming.  It’s almost like you’re just away for a few days at the hospital and you’ll be home soon.  I wish that were true.  I wish I could talk to you about articles in your Popular Science magazine or watch westerns with you—even argue with you about something stupid.  But you suffered so much and complained so little.  You deserved a break.


You showed me how to be strong without saying a word.  You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.  Don’t forget me up there, because I certainly won’t forget you.


When I was a little kid going to bed at night, we used to have a complex ritual where I would tell you goodnight and goodbye about fifteen different ways before letting you turn out the light and go out for coffee.  I kept adding more ways to say it so you would stay longer.  But we always seemed to end on the same one:


“See ya’ later, Alligator!”


And I hope somewhere up there you just said, “After while, Crocodile!”



Your Loving Daughter,


Donna Smith