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My mother had been camped out in the lounge since 5am. That's when she and my dad arrived. He went off to surgery prep at 5:30am. 

At 2:45pm, Ma was told the surgeon was on the phone for her. There was no face to face visit, just a call.

The birthday festivities over, my parents have gone to a hotel near the hospital to prepare for Dad's early morning surgery.

Dad said he wanted a new photo for his LinkedIn profile. I think, maybe, he wanted a proper photo of his head and neck before the surgery would forever change these parts.

We took a few shots on the deck behind the house. This was one of the outtakes.

At my mom's suggestion, I'm recording the sound of my Dad's voice for posterity. As an ever-dutiful archivist, I rolled video too.

Ma also suggested Pa read the children's books he read to my sister and I while we were but wee things.

Tomorrow's my Dad's birthday.

Two days from now he's having a laryngectomy, a surgery resulting in the removal of his voice box and natural ability to speak. Conversation won't be the same after that.

Tonight we had a drink.

Bright and early, as seen through the screenish, fence-like thing between the boarded walls of the platform above street level, a lone grizzled old dude works on his shot at the basketball courts near the Kosciusko J stop. 

It seems there's a debate occuring on this wall. I don't know for certain, but I'm pretty sure anarchy isn't order.

Those wooden structures look like torii, those entrance gateways to shinto shrines.

They're not, I know, but that's what I see. 

While I was walking along Union Ave with Lucy, right after we both noticed the about-to-open abomination in the village, a reporter approached from it and started asking questions.

Well ahead of her years, embarassing the rest of us in our efforts to do so, this child has already figured everything out.