It is 2pm. I am thinking, reminiscing, about my parents house. It would really troubled me to see it again. I could visit them easy if hubby came with me and we stayed in a b & b. But I cannot phantom living with them for a week, under their roof. Maybe we can arrange something in the next 10 years. They are already 83 and 81 years old. I am quite reactive to the sight and smells of this childhood home. Though the yard is truly a masterpiece of hard laboured love for gardening labour.