After Sixty-one Years Together, She Simply Clutched

He Stares At Me, And Then Leans Back In His Chair. "he's Ill, Jacob." I Say Nothing. "he's A Paragon Schnitzophonic." "he's What?!" "paragon Schnitzophonic," Repeats Uncle Al. "you Mean Paranoid Schizophrenic?" "sure. Whatever. But The Bottom Line Is He's Mad As A Hatter.

The Whole Thing's Illusion, [jacob], And There's Nothing Wrong With That. It's What People Want From Us. It's What They Expect.

Afterward, I Curl Around Her. We Lie In Silence Until Darkness Falls, And Then, Haltingly, She Begins To Talk...she Speaks Without Need Or Even Room For Response, So I Simply Hold Her And Stroke Her Hair. She Talks Of The Pain, Grief, And Horror Of The Past Four Years; Of Learning To Cope With Being The Wife Of A Man So Violent And Unpredictable His Touch Made Her Skin Crawl And Of Thinking, Until Quite Recently, That She'd Finally Managed To Do That. And Then, Finally, Of How My Appearance Had Forced Her To Realize She Hadn't Learned To Cope At All.

The Sky The Sky- Same As It Always Was.

Age Is A Terrible Thief. Just When You're Getting The Hang Of Life, It Knocks Your Legs Out From Under You And Stoops Your Back. It Makes You Ache And Muddies Your Head And Silently Spreads Cancer Throughout Your Spouse.