On Saturday, January 4, 2025, Sally asked, "When are you coming home?" to which I replied,
IDK. Home for me is in that Duarte house with Mom on her love seat enjoying a Milky Way then a 3 Musketeers, her coffee within reach on that end table pinched between her . . . imperial chair and love seat, combing thru the LA Times for some interesting story, comforted by the voices of her adult babies and perhaps Dad's radio playing big band tunes of the 1940s with his [bacon], egg [and cheddar] soufflé baking in the oven all before Sally would arrive to make her homemade coffeecake in a Pyrex. And if it were cold enough, the terrific smell, sight, and sound of a small fire in the living room fireplace. Are you talking about THAT home, where I'd be seated across Mom on the sofa populating a crossword puzzle, putting it out "What's a 5-letter word for 'hurried'? to which Mom with her Catholic school education would reply 'hasty.' Is that the home that you speak of?