Posted on July 4, 2012 - Filed Under The Marina Experiment | Leave a Comment
I strain to get to a word. It is imprisoned by my skull no window through my eyes.
My mother had collapsed onto her bad hip and her hand was firmly clutching nothing. A gang of teenagers had broken into the house and raped her while she was holding a dollar bill and then the fireplace started to melt, she said.
Spinal tap, brain biopsy, dementia of unknown origin. The doctors said it would happen to me too. That grim prediction.
And now I strain to get to a word.