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Sayoko, 71, was once an accomplished cook, famous for her cakes. She
was also skilled at knitting, turning skeins of
wool into art. But life is much different now. Bert gazes at the woman he
married in 1960. Her lank white hair hangs down over her face. She shuffles
over and places a plastic spoon and fork on the table, then leans down and
opens and closes
the Velcro straps on her shoes. "She can do that for hours," he says,
speaking of the exercise in Velcro. Sayoko's other favorite past time -
endless moments trying to pull the flowers from the printed sheets in their
bedroom - is just as futile. This is not the woman he married.
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The words "beautiful" and "love" were part of Cody's daily vocabulary. He
sprinkled I-love-yous on everyone he cared about. My sister asked Cody's
kindergarten friends to write farewell letters, and it's amazing how many
"best friends" he had. Many of the children drew pictures, usually including
a figure with yellow hair. I've given eulogies for sailors who worked for
me, but I never expected to do one for a member of my family. And the
youngest member, at that.
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When my mother grew too weak to care for herself and moved in with my
family, my special "Ya-Ya" friends were there--in love and spirit. When she
died, they filled my soul with messages of comfort, consolation, prayer and
expressions of the truest kind of friendship. These friends became, in the
most exquisite sense of the word, my best friends, and they're awesome.
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