Notes

The week wasn't the best. Then DH got his stitches out yesterday and got a good report. He has tried valiantly to be upbeat, but I keep catching him just staring at his hand with the most mournful expression on his face. I have said little. I realize I have to let him just be sad sometimes. When I do ask if he is sad, his reply is always the same: "I'm aight." In case you live on another planet, and don't know anyone who has a touch of MBS running through his veins, "Aight," is shorthand for, "All right," and it means anything BUT.

With the stitches out, today's PT went wonderfully. He flexed his injured finger almost against itself, bending at the middle joint so that the top part of the finger almost touched the bottom half of the finger. This is amazing. The PT's were astonished. And proud.

After running some errands, we came home. I was on the PC working on an article. DH went upstairs to his Music Room. He has had an interest in reorganizing it so I figured he was taking that initiative.

The phone rang and I took the call. As I was on the phone,

I......
heard......
NOTES.

DH came downstairs, playing the guitar all the way. Beautifully.

More beautiful was the look on his face. Pride, and ... amazement, and .... relief.

Things will be fine.