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Mom's home.

She's back to watching Korean TV with her big sis, my Emo. Dad had to go back out and get prescription meds from a 24-hour vendor so we can start Mom on her regimen right away. Because we had been given so much food, Dad planned to swing by the hospital and give most of it to the nighttime hospital staff-- we have no way to store it and eat it all (I hope Mom's friends will understand: we're simply spreading the love, and we don't want such bounty to go to waste).

I cried quietly in the van on the way home. Tears seem to come easily these days, and I'm not normally that sentimental. Mom sat with me; we held hands during the entire drive. Mom's fingers, so alive, flexed periodically in my grip. Emo sat up front in the passenger's seat while Dad drove us home. A gentle rain fell; lightning flickered in the distance as we rolled along.

Tomorrow will be hot. We're lucky: we can still think about tomorrow.

And tonight, at least, we can pretend things are almost normal. I'm thankful to Emo and to Uncle John-- and to the slew of visitors Mom had earlier today, including one of Mom's oldest friends-- for easing Mom's time in the hospital. The gift these good people have given to Mom-- and to the rest of us-- is incalculable.


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