"right."

we finished our lunch without talking.

i went to the bookshelf in the living room and pulled a book out at random. it was Charles Bukowski's Ham on Rye and it had belonged to my father. i put it in the bag and leant The Fuck-Up to my mom.

the people on the bus going back to Toronto seemed much happier than the people who were leaving it. i certainly felt a lot better.

i don't think my visit went the way either of us thought it would, but we both knew that it had helped. we both knew that because of it i was able to articulate what i was feeling. maybe it didn't make the best sense in the world but at least it was something.

i always try and get the same seat on the way back that i had on the way up. some silly superstitious thing--i dunno. i settled into my seat and pulled the Buk out of my bag. i cracked it wide and settled in:

The first thing I remember is being under something. It was a table, I saw a table leg, I saw the legs of the people, and a portion of the tablecloth hanging down. It was dark under there, I liked being under there.

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