My courageous Ada. I watched her eyes swell with tears. Fibromyalgia is not kind. I worry about her living in a building with spiral stairs and a broken elevator. I vow to help her as much as I humanly can.
Her father, I have taken to calling him my adopted father - telling me about jazz and his favorite musicals, musicians, and actors. Teaching me French words that I will forget. With his baritone singing voice, white hair, leather jacket, chain smoking, and his morning ritual of jumping on his motorcycle to meet his equally elderly friends for coffee at the platía.
I love hearing his stories about surviving world war and civil war. His family had been starving, and only had raisins to ration. His little sister was crying, so he took his raisin, bit half and made a production at how full he was. He gave the rest to her.