I think Johanna was giving me a hint, Johanna my sister. Warn me. In her own special way, her gentle, caring way. She posted a poem a few days ago… or has it been weeks?… I can’t keep track of time anymore…it doesn’t matter…time…anymore…to a guy like me. She called it “To Edith Failing”. Edith my Mom.
Edith Utley 21 in 1943 Born in Hell's Kitchen1921 Raised in LIC, QUEENS, NYC
I am standing naked, drenched. My is head turned toward the sky. Cold rain pouring into my eyes. The cobra skinned clouds & the moon are playing tricks on my mind. After what seems like days of rain, the clouds part and the moon crystalised clear.
The blue dot light stars splash across the night sky. Then it dawns on me that maybe Johanna is preparing ime and the world I know for the saddest moment of my life… lives really…hundreds…maybe more.
Edith is my favorite mother of all time The first mother walked out of Africa. Edith was that mother. I am grateful she chose me for a son. I guess she was looking for a challenge. Is Edith Failing? If so… will she return?

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