Hospital Song

They need to run more tests but Dad pleads, "I want to go home." This man who built houses can't stand by himself to pee.

I sit two hours with him daily, passing my sisters or brother in the hall on either end of the visit. We touch hands, squeeze.

A curled little old man under layers of cabinet-warmed blankets, he's shaking, all ice-blue eyes and Viking-white beard under sunken cheeks.

Television is election chaos. No help there. I realize what's on my iPad, close his door, crank its volume: Dad and Bob Dylan, gravel-throated friends, a hospital bed duet.

From Guest Contributor Tjorven

Holes

Geoffrey spent almost every waking moment in the backyard measuring holes. He'd dig the holes first, usually with a spoon, which took a great deal of time of course. Then he measured them. He calculated their volume, after taking down their circumference and depth. He analyzed each one carefully for soil erosion and texture. He compared one hole to the next, intent on finding even the most minute differences.

This behavior of Geoffrey's worried his parents. Maybe the boy was autistic. Maybe he was preparing for an alien invasion. Whatever it was, this wasn't the behavior of a normal 2-year-old.