And what about Leonard Woolf? Did he ever have a room he called his own? Like my father now has… After out-surviving the woman of his dreams, he’s quite at home in his very own two and a half room apartment. Bill made it all come together so smartly — negotiating the purchase of some left-over furniture and then turning the place into a salon for my father’s large, striking photos — with a roomy old couch where residents and caregivers join the fun, while my father parks himself in his comfy easy chair by the phone, across from a red desk that everyone should own. He’s never lived alone before, but he makes it look quite easy. He sleeps for the first time in years in a single quilt-covered bed nested in a nook beside a closet and bureau, books in sight. His kitchen roars with 40’s photos that everyone sees. It’s the smallest home my father’s ever lived in — but awfully grand in its own way. His way.
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