The past

Today, after the Bruins lost to the Canucks even though I was resolutely wearing my Bruin's t-shirt and jumping up and and down and espousing no small amount of expletives, we went to see my mom.  The three of us were talking in her kitchen and for some reason I kept on staring at the collage of photos that my mom had on display on the top of a hutch, in which my father was featured in two.  It was strange to be standing there, talking to Michael and to my mom and my dad wasn't there, and yet he appeared so vibrantly in the photos.  He should be here.  I don't know why this struck me today more than it might strike me any other day, but it did - my eyes flitting between my mom and Michael, and this frozen in time picture of my father.
We don't escape the past.
My mother's new condo is wonderful with a view of the water.  No cars down where she is, and she also gazes on a rather serene courtyard.
I won't draw a parallel between the view from my window and that of Scarlett Johansonn's in "Lost in Translation" with the silent, red blinking aircraft warnings, dotting the shimmering and vast landscape.
Konbanwa.