My father passed away exactly eleven years ago to this day. Eleven has always been my lucky number and was also the number in green on the back of my baseball jersey when I played shortstop for Ghent Motors. Today also marks the fifth birthday of our dog Luca who is a brown Labrador Retriever, making her thirty-five years old in human years. The last time I left the hospital where my father lay dying, the sunlight reflected so brightly from the cement sidewalk that it hurt my eyes; I had to turn my despondent head sideways and look the other way. In the meantime, it is slowly but surely getting colder outside as winter approaches with bursts of icy winds. Eleven is also the day of the month and the minutes past the hour on which I was born. The golfing season will return again next year as always meaning that this is a time of smooth patience and spiritual awakening.
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