A few days a week I make my way over. Every movement, word, and moment is deliberate. I make notes. I wait. I encourage. I stare out windows. I try not to cry.
It has been this way for a while.
She ate a nice bit of lunch on her own. She even requested some onion soup but the kitchen was already closed. She told Carl that if she didn't start eating the doctor mentioned a feeding tube. I guss that was enough to spark her appetite. We took her outside and then I came home. Good day.
Eventually she'll be able to drink a glass of water on her own—one that hasn't been thickened with nectar. Without the watchful eye of a therapist, daughter(s), or granddaughter.
At home I continue my language studies. Roberto corrects me. Sometimes I surprise him. Sometimes I surprise myself.
After weeks of letting bananas spoil I am urged to make a banana bread.
I practice yoga. I practice deep breathing. I hop on the bike for endurance. I lift weights for strength.
And, we eat pasta.
Tonight we'll eat quinoa. I said.
You just like saying quinoa. He said.