Dad keeps asking for a half-pint of cold milk. He doesn’t talk of dying but of going home. And it’s some consolation that the cabbage-y room in the aged care facility, with its hoseable floor, is a stone’s throw from where Gran gave birth to Dad on their kitchen table.
My two sisters and I have set up camp here, with knitting and books and herbal teas, and it reminds me of preparing for birth. The burrowing-in. The stopped clocks. Something huge coming.
