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My mother died in 2000.

I've been jealous of my sister's relationship with her. They talked every Sunday.

My mother left my sister her etching press. She also made her Trustee for the family land that we go to every possible summer, imprinted like ducks.

What did she leave me?

Nothing, I thought. No concrete thing.

I moved here because her ovarian cancer had recurred and at that time, the survival rate at recurrence was no one. No one survived. She was going to die.

I stayed and my father is still here. He lives 17 miles away, alone. We have lived here for 11 years.

I joined his chorus for my mother's memorial service. We sang a Byrd Mass, because she liked early masses. After wards, I asked if I could stay in the chorus. I've been in it for 11 years.

Chorus meets from September through the concert in February, now. We used to have two concerts a year. Most of the choral members are in two or three or more groups. My father was in three, then two, now one. He missed one concert of two last spring. This year he missed both.

We go to chorus on Monday night. I say hello to my father, talk for a few minutes, sing for two hours and then talk again. The perfect introvert relationship.

He stopped in on Monday, bringing my son two of his favorite physics texts. We sing folk songs and I'm finally learning a bit of guitar.

And I'm wrong about my mother, she did leave me something, she left me something precious: time with my father.

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