The woman returned from her parents' yesterday. She brought back a book of Saul Steinberg cartoons for me. At first I thought it was Al Silverstein. I had meant Shel Silverstein, but I said "Al Silverstein". She nodded "no".
I figured I'd go over to her house just to pick up my bag, but when I found out that my family wasn't celebrating Father's Day, I stayed. I hung out with the guy, watched the Lakers game with him, and played Scrabble with the missus when she returned.
It felt good.
My own father was in Manhattan. I didn't try to call him. He never answers his phone.
Today is Bloomsday. A friend of my mother's died last year; she was a Joyce fan; this year's annual reading of Ulysses will be done in her honor at the local café.