I Am Ninety. Or Ninety-three. One Or

I Used To Think I Preferred Getting Old To The Alternative, But Now I'm Not Sure. Sometimes The Momotony Of Bingo And Sing-alongs And Ancient Dusty People Parked In The Hallway In Wheelchairs Makes Me Long For Death. Particularly When I Rememver That I'm One Of The Ancient Dusty People, Filed Away Like Some Worthless Tchotchke.

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.

They Grew Fat And Happy--the Horses, Not The Children, Or Marlena For That Matter.

Although There Are Times I'd Give Anything To Have Her Back, I'm Glad She Went First. Losing Her Was Like Being Cleft Down The Middle. It Was The Moment It All Ended For Me, And I Wouldn't Have Wanted Her To Go Through That.

Keeping Up The Appearance Of Having All Your Marbles Is Hard Work, But Important.