..memories that drift in and out of consciousness,
years having worn the edges away.
Each woman is a single soul,
a single story,
a single history,
a rich and complex tapestry of living life.
SOLO in birth.
SOLO in birthing.
SOLO in death.
The sun-drenched gathering room, a tapestry,
is hemmed in pending fear, death, complacency;
welcomed by some, fought by others.
Underneath the worn and frayed covering
We spent our last afternoon at Alta Ridge
visiting Grandma Mimi and her fellow "house-mates."