2007-11-02 || 7:05 p.m.

|| november 2 ||

it's the time of year where even lying under covers (worse: lying under covers with a laptop in bed: is this what it's come to, technology?) i have cold hands, although my legs are sweaty because athe fabric of these old man pants doesn't breathe. it's dark early so we don't know what to do with the first two hours after dusk; we wander in different rooms with the tv and oven on. the old lady cat peed on my clothes while i was away and i don't know whether to take it personally. the clothes are now in the dryer but i don't have the energy, especially while lying under covers during the first two hours after dusk, to go down to the basement to retrieve them.

tomorrow is our anniversary and we will drive to the coast and stay in a wood-panelled motel room. the leaves in the tillamook forest will be at their finest, and i will point my camera up toward the sky with the window rolled up. the heater will be on in the car and maybe a song will come on and we will be otherwise quiet, and i will be thankful to be in oregon, in a forest, with my new husband who drives too slowly for my taste but is an uncharacteristically careful driver. meanwhile i will miss my parents and my sister and how close we were this week, and i will realize i never got a chance to cry enough about what is happening:

in the hospital my mother mentioned how it will go down, how "this will not end nicely" and we will most likely at some point have to make the decision to let her go. i spent six days of breakfast lunch and dinner with my dad, most often only my dad, in the hospital cafeteria and the mall food court and chain restaurants around the hospital, and i didn't ask him enough how we was doing because i never got an answer.

previous || next || random

guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land