Columnist David Brooks posits in his Second Mountain that conversation is critically foundational to successful marriage.  If so, I am doomed.  Conversation has always come hard: I expend so much energy measuring my audience and tailoring my comments for self-safety that talking is exhausting.  I did not chat much in marriage, and after eight years living alone, I sometimes wonder if I can converse at all.  Draper Rehab held a resident Thanksgiving dinner. Mom and I were Dad’s guest quota, and we sat quietly at our table watching all the other residents with their respective disabilities and guests, waiting for more than 150 people to be served their turkey and potatoes and stuffing and yams and green beans and gravy, all meted with ice cream scoops.  We had little to say to one another.  Dad drooped and seemed so old.  But we were there, giving quiet loving support.  As I knew he would, Dad eyed my cranberry-sprite cocktail and wondered if he could have some.  Too much sugar, Dad.  But when José brought the cart around, Dad motioned for a cup.  I said nothing.  Various residents rolled by: Mark the mechanic who loves all things cars; Mitch from Brooklyn with whom we felt an affinity as an east coaster; others who could not speak or could not move and had daughters feed them and grandchildren wipe their mouths with white towels.  “The food is wonderful,” I ventured, and I might as well have commented on the weather: rain was in the forecast.  The next day, Mom and I asked Dad for a report on his physical therapy—he had walked “a hundred feet” to the exercise room and practiced standing up and sitting down six times, and was thoroughly wasted.  I showed him how to operate the television remote—hold the remote in your left hand and push the channel up or down button with your right index finger, like this.  We talked about springing powers of attorney and how they needed durable powers of attorney because I did not want to have to testify in Mom’s and Dad’s presence to a doctor about their future incompetence to make decisions for themselves—they agreed.  And I had Dad sign a letter I wrote to Bank of America asking to reverse late fees and interest charged on the same day his payment posted.  “We’ll see you tomorrow, Dad,” I reassured him.  That is the hardest part of living in a rehabilitation center: not the briefs and bed pans, not the food you don’t like, not the lack of interesting television, but the utter loneliness of living alone in viewless room away from your beloved home and sweetheart.  “I’m not leaving without a kiss!” Mom exclaimed, juggling a smile from his smooched face.