I was trying to make order out of chaos in our den, to free up a space for a portable cabinet that will help Ed organize his guardian paperwork. I chanced upon a forgotten egg crate full of files and they, sheesh, were my files. I started looking through and could have spent the whole day doing just that. I found the file I had kept regarding the fight to keep Jay at home with nursing care instead of having him institutionalized. I ultimately managed that but only by getting him back on Medicaid. The commercial insurance dumped us. The file is three inches thick.

And I found Robert Bloch’s obit clipping from the New York Times (he wrote “Psycho” that Hitchcock made into the movie), and a letter he wrote me. He was a dear friend. His death was a real shock.

There was also a page of free verse I wrote about 40 years ago when I had spent an afternoon reflecting on my dysfunctional adolescence. Here it is.

In my youth I was an uncut stone
I searched for a princely fellow
to be my diamond cutter
To help me develop my potential
“Cut me, cut me,” I would cry to my choices
And they would
With whatever skill they had,
With any old tool
The results were a bit rough
Uneven sides, no
polish
At last I took a look
Not good enough, I said at last
What a simp I was to leave the job
to him,
them
Look what’s been done … I am
Modern Art

So I began to prune a bit here
there … ouch
oh … ugh
Help
So, that’s the view from that side
What a terrible gouge that is, I must
have helped him with that one;
no man would have figured that out alone

“Find a man,” said my mother, my teachers,
my peers … (oh … them)
And he’ll cut you up good
And then you’ll be somebody’s somebody
But I wasn’t
I had to start all over.

xx, Teal