Another Chronicle of sorts

Yesterday I drove out to see my friend. She was not home. I visited with her son who is living there, met his wife and two little boys. 

My friend and her husband and the family of another of their sons--they have six sons, one daughter--have gone camping, up to Red Fish Lake, a place they have loved forever. They used to live up there every summer when he (my friend's husband) worked for the Forest Service.

This son, next to the youngest, works for Verizon, which is not particularly relevant but is part of the small talk we engaged in between the hard parts of the conversation. Like when I asked about his mom. "She's all right," he said, with that tone and look we have when we know all right is not very good, not good enough. 

I told him that she seemed to know me last visit, that she asked about Paul, which I took as a very good sign. He said she's worse now. Probably wouldn't know me now.

It's only been a month or so.

We chatted, I cried, he said he feels bad for his dad. I didn't say it, but I feel bad for her and all she has lost. I left, told him to tell her I came, whether or not she will know who Carol might be.