My Son Sent Me to a Nursing Home Until He Realized I Was Never Coming Back

in the ninth of them and I miss her still. I painted a great many bad paintings and one that was actually quite good, of the lake where Frank is laughing in the photograph, and it hangs in David’s house now, which is its own kind of ending.

And here is what I would tell any woman who finds herself, at seventy two or fifty or eighty five, sitting in continue reading …