Tosca

Another visit to see Mom today. During our visit, she told me she hoped God would forgive me for what Dad and I were doing to her. Then, almost in the same breath, asked tearfully if she had ever been a burden to us, then told me she wanted booze in her juice, and followed that with a request for a hatchet.

Coming back from the nursing home, I turned into the gravel driveway, made the last swerve to the front of the garage, and took a moment to observe the old log house that has become my home. I thought about how the color on the logs was once new with the blush of fresh paint. I thought about how the carpet in the house, now loose and wrinkled, must have looked when it was new--plush, and tight, and newly installed. I thought about how the walls are all faded and stained with memories, and how the rubber seals around all the doors are stiff and torn and ripped here and there.

Dad started his morning today singing an aria from Tosca. A special program on tv last night on Pavarotti had inspired him. He asked me to find his book on Italian arias so he could brush up. This afternoon he got a new hearing aid that improved his hearing so much that he kept counting to himself in Japanese all afternoon just so he could hear himself hear better.

For the first time today, when we left the nursing home, Dad didn't say goodbye to Mom.