My father's veins are collapsing because he is dehydrated. His eyes no longer focus on any of us. These are difficult days. Today he managed to string three words together that haunt me - "I'm not sad". What do I take from this? All I can manage is to stroke his hand, his bony shoulder, his head, and weep.
I leave Scott sitting at the kitchen table opening Mass cards. He is also weeping. I think that perhaps we are doing exactly what we are supposed to do. We are grieving - it is all Hallow's Eve. Perhaps we need a Bonfire! A cleansing ritual. Or not.
There is knitting -
The paragon, the patrician, the prodigious MONKEY! Ok, so I know that I'm late to the party, but I've never been ahead of the curve. I tried to link this to Cookie's web, but failed. Too much effort to go back at it again.
I pick up my needles and let the yarn find the way. So much of this knitting business is memory, habit, solace.
