A question hangs in the vacuum between our averted eyes like a smoke ghost smeared and disipating
Between our averted eyes that crazily sometimes point to center, our averted eyes that force us to contort this way and that so that for a split second we see each other
and the question that hangs in the air like a haunting

A question of care. The burdon of care. I see the looks I get. Those who know me best don’t have the greatest confidence in my ability to take of myself. I need help, their help.

My mother wants me to move home to take care of me. She wishes the dogs would be given to someone in the country who would let me visit. They could check on me. Make sure my house is clean. Make sure they clean the crazy that hangs in the air like a smoke ghost.

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