I couldn't move anything, not a muscle. I couldn't talk, I couldn't cry, I couldn't even scratch my nose, and it really needed scratching more than on...e. I couldn't do anything. I understood this, but understanding it is a lot different than feeling it.After a week, they sent me home and boy was it good to be back home again. My own bed felt so much better that the hospital bed with those plastic sheets that made you hot and sweaty. The doctors and nurses told mama that she and my sisters would. The left-hand clutches a small leather purse, warm and soft.She scans the road looking for his car, her eyes alert for whatever the night might offer up. Lyrics of a song in her head summon a pounding beat to drive away her thoughts of Joe. It is hardly a song, just the rise and fall of a monotonous rhythm that is no tune at all. It's from that album with the Warhol banana. She repeats words, whispered, over and over... How Ironic; it's Sunday morning too.This Jerry bloke had better have a big. More

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