compressed raze here in my hands is a book of all your needlework. clumsy early stabs at rustic scenes give way to intricate designs that defy description. i still have the drawing you made of me when my hair first found the courage to touch my shoulders. all that remains of your second husband's likeness is a fragment of flesh-covered skull. you haven't put pen or pencil to paper in years. you couldn't if you wanted to. your compressed median nerves have made the simple act of peeling a potato a steep hill to climb. i was always amazed to know there was art in you, though you never had the patience or the resolve to nurture it. kind of like us kids. you carried us for as long as your body required you to, and no longer. 240115 what's it to you? who go blather from