We've eaten the candy. (Okay, I've eaten the candy), half of the cookies, most of the berries. It's three nurses later. There's been a sandwich run. Wine has been poured. Hugs have been exchanged and stories told. Tears wept and wiped and wept again. Hands have been held. Hands have been massaged. Hands have been placed on Dan's forehead, slipped into his hands, and hands have stroked his arms and his improbably hollow cheeks.
Wishes have been whispered. Blessing proffered. Permissions given. Predictions made. Love given, received, multiplied and returned.
Meanwhile, my mother is standing in the kitchen in her purple plaid pajamas finishing her millionth martini.
And I'm just wondering. Anybody else out there have two Do Not Resuscitate forms posted inside their door? Just asking. Just asking. Just asking.
