The cardiologist pulled me aside this afternoon to tell me he’s already written the orders: barring some unforeseen, unexpected major setback, dad will be released tomorrow, regardless of how many or few times he walks outside of the room. To celebrate (if that’s somehow an appropriate word) on the way home, I stop at Bilbo’s for salad and a mini pizza. As I pour myself a small glass of wine, I look back: I can’t remember the last time I had Bilbo’s, although there was probably some consumed with Barb during a visit in the 1990s. So that’s twenty years.