"First let's feed the cat", say I, gently putting Sheeba back on the floor.
"I found the kibble", says Francois, pulling the bag out from one of the lower cupboards near the sink.
"When are we going to eat?" says Carl.
"Give me about an hour."
"Okay, what shall we start with?"
"Never mind. You're my guests, I'm taking care of meals. Go sit in the living room, both of you."
"Aw, you're no fun"
"Just do as you're told." And now I am reaching for Dad's big stew pot. First a little olive oil on the bottom, and now to chop the garlic, onions and mushrooms. This all feels very sudden. Perhaps we should have gone through some kind of homecoming rite or ritual. The least I could have done was give them a tour of the house and property. But right now I am finally back at home, and at home in a way that I never felt in the nearly fifteen years of living in Greta's apartment, because now I know that it was really her place and I have simply been squatting there since she left. Now here are the two cans of black beans. This isn't going to take that long after all...
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