June 29, 2008

Sultry Sunday. What with the rental I got to drive to Atlanta, the alley behind the houses gleams dully with red cars in summer light.

Linda’s friends organized a wonderful party in a section of Alpharetta studded with sprung-up-in-the-night mini-mansions. I had more time to talk with Jonathan and Bekka than I have in years. Bekka is smart and attractive and hard working– Hermione Grainger from Harry Potter is who comes to mind. She says she doesn’t have a boyfriend because she’s around her brothers too much, and knows what boys say, but also what they mean. Jonathan is a sort of saint. He needs to take the next step before one can tell exactly what kind.

The event was a little odd to me, as none of those people knew dad, but we appreciated the society and the diversion offered by the festivities.

The hardest moment I have had so far was rounding the corner past Dogwood Forest into my sister's street. One time only I saw dad toodling on his scooter down that street to visit his grandchildren. It was an image of paradise. I thought he would have at least a few years of riding that scooter down the street.

Drove home from Atlanta listening to Beethoven string quartets

I put on dad’s ring, gold and white gold with a big diamond in the middle.

This is Sunday night. On Sunday nights I call dad on the phone, to keep up, to help him conquer his computer, to hear some old story he is suddenly in the mood to tell.