very sick, my mother spent the last few months of her life in a nursing home. each time I’d visit I’d find her propped up in a chair by the nurse’s station. one day I asked “what are you doing out here, mom?”
“I’m waiting to buy my ticket,
the train is coming.”
“Let the labyrinth of wrinkles be furrowed in my brow with the red-hot iron of my own life, let my hair whiten and my step become vacillating, on condition that I can save the intelligence of my soul – let my unformed childhood soul, as it ages, assume the rational and esthetic forms of an architecture, let me learn just everything that others cannot teach me, what only life would be capable of marking deeply in my skin!”
~
The Farmer’s Almanac was his Bible
It was going to be a harsh winter
when she referred to this color as old-lady-blue
in knowing that some things
remain the same
Licht Years 