My parents' house, which my sister and I have up for sale, now they are both gone.
I'm continually amazed that anyone can afford to live in the UK at these prices. Our whole farm, plus additions, plus repairs and retrofits, cost much less than the realtor's asking price for our little house in Wales.
But, I suppose, house prices are much more expensive in popular markets in the US.
Obviously, Aimee and I will be much better off once this sale has taken place. We won't have a mortgage any more. I'm looking forward to it.
But I'd rather have my mum and dad.
In particular, I'd rather have my mum and dad as they were before the scourge of Alzheimer's Disease wiped their memories. I'd like to hear the stories about the family and the War, and ask questions about events and context that haven't occurred to me before.
Big things, like whether on not they were scared during the blitz. I can't believe I never asked them that.
Or little things. Like just yesterday, I remember when I was a small boy my gran telling me in great detail about a beautiful dog she once owned, and how she took care of it even through the Depression by feeding it the scraps from a cafe where she worked.
At least that's how I remembered the story, as I watched Aimee play with Ernie and Flame. Particular Ernie, whose coat is as glossy black as the coat of the dog in my gran's story.
But I don't remember, and will never know, if I remember it right!
Mum would have known.
Things like that, and the fact that on the basis of my mum's whole life of scrimping and saving and working, I'll be able to pay off this farm thirteen years before I otherwise could, make me just want to weep.