He talks too little and writes too much. I hate eating with him. We're strangers sitting across from each other, night after night. I decide to read an obit out loud. "Herbert Walker, 95, passed into the arms of the Lord on Tuesday. He is survived by his pitbull, One Eye, now available at the dog rescue. The dog is friendly, housebroken, and a fine companion." I look at my husband. "Let's get him," he says.
The year she stopped eating and working and talking, she devolved, draping cloth over mirrors, not brushing her teeth. She went from Emily Dickinson to Sylvia Plath to Anne Sexton, reading their work over and over, copying their words. A day came. She reached for a pencil... cracked egg, hot griddle. Her first poem filled two pages. She now eats oatmeal and wanton soup from the Chinese restaurant.