Breathe Deeply The Joy of Life

My mother Elvie went through a box of my father's personal papers, writings, and photos at the weekend. Twelve months have passed since he died last March.
Meredith and Elvie were looking at some of the photos at the farm late yesterday while I had a cup of tea after a busy day. As they passed them on to me to see, a strange feeling came over me.
The photos were a snap of about 80 years of family history. They included Lyle as a baby with his mother, aunts who died nearly 50 years ago, football teams, his family home, his young wife, and more recently his children and grandchildren, his cats, the farm, and himself in his later years, looking frail.
Oddly, I felt quite unconnected. Like it all happenned in a dream or in another lifetime separate to mine. I've felt this way before when going back in time, say to visit the old neighbourhood of our childhood, the old school, or catching up with an old girlfriend. Did it really happen? Did little wooden sailing ships cross the oceans to get here, not so long ago? Did nations spend 6 years trying to bomb each other into oblivion, not so long ago? It all seems unbelievable.
When walking this morning it came to me that every day is new, and different. Today the rose of dawn crept over the hill and shone through white mist, sillhouetting pine trunks and limbs like giant dark statues in the light. Sweet water dripped gently to earth. Seventeen black cockies in flock flopped across the sky east to west, unhurried, laconic. Never seen that many together before.
Tomorrow? Breathe deeply the cold morning air, the joy of life.