Thanksgiving on Prospect Street. The third one, perhaps,--probably--our last one at number 92. Sophie's back in New York City on the Megabus, now uptown at Columbia. She broke up with Jordan this afternoon, moments before we took her to Kennedy Plaza. She sort of sprung it on him; he sped off in his Ranger, not saying goodbye or looking me in the eye. My heart feels for him. I have been in his shoes. I think Sophie has made the right decision. She says she has been breaking up with him for a year. Sally has been hoping she would move along. I have an identity issue, feeling for Jordan, all of the parallels between myself and Jeanette, back in our Princeton days. It feels as if I am more bothered by this change than Sally and Sophie. I expect Sophie will wrestle with her decision for a while to come. Will it be our last Thanksgiving with Jordan? What about Dad, in rehab. He still cannot walk, although there is no diagnosis, no prognosis. He just sits in his wheelchair, not reading. Watching television programs like "Wheel of Fortune" and "Jeopardy," a sad demise. The long goodbye, twilight. Who knows? Will this be his last Thanksgiving? It, too, feels like it might be. I drained the pipes at Stonepile yesterday. It took me nearly three hours, but less nerve-wreaking than it has in the past. I'll know in the spring whether I should have been more circumspect. It will not be our last Thanksgiving with Stonepile, or my last time draining the water from its pipes.