The gang went miniature golfing. After pushing him in The Beach Chair I sprawled exhausted on a broken lounge chair; he happily watched carefree girls in bikinis playing in the waves. Texted location, "need help getting back". Entire family arrived in ten minutes. Grateful.

The next day, was able to spend two hours alone, walking to the jetty. Got sidetracked by driftwood and seashells at low tide. The remains of a structure, built by someone on the tenth anniversary of 9/11, caught my attention. American flag missing; somebody repurposed with things the ocean provides. I rearranged some barnacle encrusted ropes, added several found sunglasses, surf fishing lures, feathers and shells. Satisfying.

That night my husband woke at 4 am, packed his suitcase, stripped the bed; I groggily went to see what the noise was. "I'm ready to go home." First reaction was anger, saying some regretful things until I saw his face. Frightened. Hugged him until he stopped shaking. "What's wrong, hon?" He said, "Everything." I made peanut butter and jelly. As he ate, I recounted all the good things I could think of, starting with the girls in bikinis and ending with dolphin sightings. Relief.

I learned no matter how carefully I plan, I cannot anticipate nor really understand his everchanging mental status. We ended up laughing about me using too much peanut butter, as it dripped onto his beard, the table, his shirt. "Guess you better change into your Pink Floyd pajamas", I suggested, "to impress the kids and grandkids in the morning.

"I have Pink Floyd pajamas??" Wiping the peanut butter off his beard, "You sure do,... and you're going to sleep all night long in them!" Which was only five more hours. Trial and error.


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