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

I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.

Is where you're from the place you're leaving or where you have roots?

After sixty-one years together, she simply clutched my hand and exhaled.

Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?

... a gaggle of old ladies is glued to the window at the end of the hall like children or jailbirds. They're spidery and frail, their hair as fine as mist. Most of them are a good decade younger than me, and this astounds me. Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.--There are five of them now, white headed old things huddled together and pointing crooked fingers at the glass.

I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page.