It is the suddenness of crossingoverthat cannot be comprehended.One moment she is among usreaching for her purse.Àæ.
The nurses clean and cuddle,talk numbers--b.p. one-ten-over-sixty-and these we babble to friendsand those givers of ill advice,hours when the smells arenot our own, even childrenquietening downin the sudden blow of dumbnesswhere she lives.
After a journey of many simplicitieswe spy her stillalone, at a great distance, immobilebehind that other numbernone can guess. We practicecontactbut she cannot
at first we smash upinside all nightafter hours of visitation have safelypassed and the dark leads usaway. Alone on the wardshe hunts for bedcar teech comb.
