Back home. I am sitting in the room where, 40 years ago, I was nursed, and where, ten weeks ago, my father died. There are no decorations, and no Christmas tree; my mother doesn't want them, and I can understand how she feels. Why pretend? It seems normal now to me, the fact that Dad is no longer here; but then there are times, when I cach sight of a photograph, or a note he scribbled somwehere, and it hits me again. I sigh, and look outside; in the wind, the branches shake, and I realize anew how much I miss him and how I wish more than anything he were here now.