'Tis surely some demented game? That she lives no longer and is but a picture in the frame on the shelves of my silent memory, a feeling in a heart lame crippled with the fear of forgetting, of losing every detail, maybe even her name! To damage self, somehow maim limb or figure, that my suffering outside and inside be the same and that some may ask and I respond her rememberance to claim with words of her kindness and love and in attonement for the blame I now bear for letting go of the lovely, lovely dame that was my solid ground my heaven and flame. How my sadness now to tame? My life so hollow, to what aim?