My dad calls. I can hear his excitement. He awaits my visit with impatience. I arrive at the rehab centre--pretty grim looking place. Few tax dollars are spent here, it appears. I can hardly recognize my father with his bruised face, due to a recent nighttime mishap. The physiotherapy and occupational therapy have done wonders though, which is what really matters. My father stands, sits, walks haltingly--great progress from 1 month ago.
I spend a couple hours on a classroom ‘shopping’ expedition. I search for the perfect room to dedicate to my father at Vancouver Community College, where he spent 21 years teaching math. This should be a great gift for his upcoming 80th birthday.
A 1967 Cobra replica sits in the entrance into the school, all polished and shiny--ready for its new owner, to be determined by lottery. The school has partnered with correction services so that a group of students who, instead of stealing cars, are learning to build cars.
My cousins, Grace and Aaron, drop by for a visit. I can hardly keep awake. My body is unable to discern its current time zone: Paris? Toronto? Certainly not Vancouver! By 6 p.m. all I want is sleep. Mom putters around for the next 2 hours. How can my mother and I be so different?
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