My baby, and my books. This is the town with the house with the woman with the fire inside. She arranges her mornings with needles and flowers, becoming quieter. Everyday wishing there is more to life than this great lone pine. They do not talk to her anymore, nor do they visit her with apple pies. The future is a gray seagull, they say, the sun has gone to another.

Loneliness is like a legacy, she said. A tattered, unanticipated heirloom. My grandmother is a lonely lady,. As is my mother, wed to this solitary. The heart is a muscle, and like other muscles,. Without love to keep it pumping,. Likewise, if overextended,. It will also cease to function,. Tetany shall set in,. I suffer such arrhythmia,. From the starts and stops.