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Show -?£o AS. Kite and I were talking about her father's funeral three years ago. She said it wasn't so bad, that he had been sick for a long time and everyone had expected his death, though even so it had been a shock to her, and grief was a very painful thing. She had found that out with her mother's death: weth each parent something in her had seemed to die too. If she was home on Saturday mornings we had a small breakfast, coffee cake or cheese rolls, and then a big lunch either at home or with Ben and Amelia or outt .somewhere, like the Art Institute. We'd gone back twice and though the did not say much, I found her an excellent guide. She taught me to see^ So this Saturday morning we were talking at the kitchen table, white enameled top, me with my legs stretched out/ lighting a second cigarette, a mistake, though the first one had tasted so good, and she in her robe leaning both elbows on the table, occasionally sipping coffee wixk which by now must have been cold. Now in April her face had that winter white to it, such a contrast to her black hair, though just now she wore no makeup and she looked drawn, her face thinned. She did not look happy to me. She talked about how her brother Andy was into farming, a farm family with four kids, and how her sister Helen also had four children in her second, current marriage, and how she had lost £sea.l<tMT€. much contact with both of gthem. She/should have been content to stay in^6*v«We and have kids, she said. Maybe she should have stayed married to Frank Schoenhals. "Could tf you have?" "No. Not to Mark either." "Would kids be essential to you in marriage? I mean could you marry |
