On the day after the year's darkest day, my father will finally come home. It's been over ten months since he left for a kidney biopsy, perhaps ten months to the day that the infection that entered through an uncaught bedsore paralysed him to the extent that he couldn't breathe. I'm sitting at the ancient computer he used to spend hours a day on, mostly reading weather reports, and wondering whether it'll ever be that way again.
Last night my mother and I cleaned "the playroom" to make space for extra furniture, moved down from the living room to make space for Dad's hospital bed and equipment. Fortunately, because the living room is fairly long, the entertainment centre can stay, as well as two small sofas. This means that the room will feel more homey, will look closer to the living room Dad left than a hospital room.
Saturday's dinner will be chicken quesadillas--of the dishes I make when home (i.e. it's suitable for spontaneous mass production), it's one of Dad's favourites.
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