He sits in the breakfast nook, an artfully designed corner of the otherwise empty house with bench seats that look out on the Douglas firs. A cup of tea is before him, as is a single English muffin. This has been his routine now for six months. Get up, run around the property and the hills beyond. Shower, dress, enjoy a cup of tea and a pastry of some sort. And then?
I knew it was coming. It’s possible it was simply two years late. I walked into through the sliding automatic door, past the deli and the Keno display and strode boldly — much more than I felt — down the cheese aisle and, yeah.
Crap. Here it comes.
When we moved back into our house, the chore of sorting through what seemed an endless tide of boxes of books fell to yours truly. It was only fair. A good eighty to ninety percent of the books in this house are mine anyway. And of course I didn’t mind, reconnecting with what I could consider friends, some of which have been with me since high school. As I sorted and unpacked, I realized that I wanted to reread a vast number of them. Now, some of these books I could probably rewrite from memory. But I wanted to reread them none the less. Like I just said, some of these books, they’re like friends.