10:20pm

It is 10:20pm. Upstairs, you are coughing. A new cold, though your nose has been running continually since September. We keep a basket full of old, thin cloth diapers at the ready downstairs and swipe at your face whenever you come near.

My colleague died yesterday. He donated his eyes. Today was impossibly sad.

At ECFE you dipped the wheels of a red truck into red paint and then rolled the truck back and forth across a piece of plain white paper.

While you napped, Grandma cleaned our bathroom. She fed you kiwi and Amy's Macaroni and Cheese.

You are coughing still.

I called Michael about a cruise. He explained the difference between the first deck and the fifth.

My writing group came over and we drank wine. After they left, I put much of the uneaten food (snack mix, almonds, crackers) back into boxes.

You are still coughing.

Any time, really, could be the end. Death reminds us of this.

The next day we forget so that we can go on.