I am looking for different coloring book pages to print out on my watercolor paper. Flowers would probably be best - he liked coloring flowers with me. Should I print two? One is probably fine, we can share and do it together. My parents said my grandfather didn't even really understand what food was in the last couple weeks and didn't understand how to eat.
We go to Easter brunch with my parents and I pack all the coloring stuff in my bag. Watercolors for Ba and me, markers and drawing book for my son Joss.
"Are you going to draw pictures for Ba?" I ask Joss.
He says he will and is excited. "Can I do it now?"
"No, let's wait till we go see Ba," I tell him.
We walk into Golden Age and I am expecting to see Ba sitting in his usual chair in the living room with the other residents.
"He's still in bed," Connie says.
We make our way into the back where his room is. He looks so strange. He reminds me of my grandmother at the end. …
I am going out the front door of my office when my cell buzzes in my bag. It's my mom. She sounds panicked. She says something about a huge explosion near her house and she doesn't know what to do and then she has to go. She says she'll be in contact later. I'm puzzled and worried and mention it to my coworker as we head for the train station.
I take my seat on the 6:27 train leaving San Francisco and then proceed to text my boyfriend with the little information I have from my mom's scary and cryptic phone call. I don't hear anything from my mom on the way home and I fall asleep on the train, frightened, but lulled by the train's familiar rocking and my own mental self-assurances. As the train pulls up to the San Bruno station, I see a huge plume of black smoke emanating from the west, but still very close by. A man in scrubs waiting to get off the train at the same stop as me says he heard it was a plane crash. Stunned, I exit the train in hope…
She pushes the noodles of her Vietnamese mixed bun bowl around. "Look, there's nothing here!" She has already given most of the meat and imperial rolls from her meal to my grandfather and my dad. All that's left are the noodles.
My dad asks me about work and we chat a little bit.
"This wouldn't even cost fifteen cents," she says angrily, pushing the noodles around in the bowl some more. "Look at this!"
My grandfather joins in. "Everything is just warm, not even hot."
"I'm never coming back here. Ever!" She pushes the noodles around continually, demanding that we look at it.
My father just smiles at her. "You're going to forget in three minutes anyway."
She doesn't hear him.
"I don't even think it will be three whole minutes," I reply to my dad.
"Not even fifteen cents!" she mutters again.
"Wednesday is better because then I have time to forget what it's like. When …