I really can't do anything else right now. Just sit, and stare at the climbing rose blooming in the kitchen window, here in this very same chair where my father died almost two years ago. I don't feel like continuing with breakfast. If the other two want to continue, that's fine. I am not budging. It just feels right, good and proper for now to do absolutely nothing. A house finch is singing lustily outside near the house. They are lovely birds, like sparrows, but mostly red, the males are anyway, and how wonderfully they sing. I could just sit here for days, my first time here really in years. No, I am not returning to the condo, I am going to sell it, furniture and everything. It really belongs to Greta, who bought it then signed it over to me after we separated and she returned to Sweden. We are still not properly divorced, but it wasn't really a marriage. Three times we attempted sex. It simply was not going to work. Carl walks into the kitchen just as I am putting my mug of coffee to my lips...
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