"The day after tomorrow," he said.

 “The day after tomorrow,” he said.  

That afternoon (after we’d discussed “freedom is a breakfastfood” in the morning) - that afternoon, Uncle Albert said, “I think we’ll head home day after tomorrow.” And I said, “Fine,” as nonchalantly as I could since I was surprised since I’d thought he’d come home to Paradise to die, however long that took. But, as I’ve said, he hadn’t. He never intended to die in Paradise. He just wanted to go there via New York City and northern New York State and Ottawa. Then, he'd come back here, which was, is, now “home,” it seems.

     I said then, too, that it saddened me to think he was going home, to Paradise, to die. But when he said, “I think we’ll head home day after tomorrow,” meaning here, it not only surprised but it frightened me. I thought, “He’s going to die underfoot.”

We aren’t, I understand this, always in control of our thoughts. Or ever. And we can’t unthink anything we’ve thought though we can forget it - unless it’s horribly mean. Then, we can forget it for a while - and maybe another while and maybe another even long while. But then, it remembers us and decides to stop back for a visit. So, I was surprised and frightened, and I thought what I thought; then, I was pissed I’d thought it and couldn’t do anything about it. There it was, and it would be back.

     In short, it was a typical day in Paradise.

And the day after the next day in Paradise, we drove the 925 miles home.

09.20.17