I cling to my anger with every ounce of humanity left in my ruined body, but it's no use. It slips away, like a wave from shore. I am pondering this sad fact when I realize the blackness of sleep is circling my head. It's been there awhile, biding it's time and growing closer with each revolution. I give up on rage, which at this point has become a formality, and make a mental note to get angry again in the morning. Then I let myself drift, because there's really no fighting it.

The more distressing the memory, the more persistent it's presence.

...if you expect people to try to do things your way, you're going to have to give some hints as to what that way is.

They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.

You work hard on a book and throw it out there and then it's beyond your control.

...poking a lump of red Jello that jiggles outrageously, like a breast I once knew.

But it all zipped by. One minute Marlena and I were up to our eyeballs, and the next thing we knew the kids were borrowing the car and fleeing the coop for college. And now, here I am. In my nineties and alone.