Each day is different, so like mourning, ebbing and flowing in waves, some that soothe, some that flatten me onto banks of sharp shells. My son is dying and my daughter is being born. I tell one friend about it and burst into tears. I tell another and make a joke. This is huge. For thirty years, after a fire and a murder devastated my life, things were pretty normal. One awful death, but normal. No periods of being so crazy I’m speaking in tongues. I’m close to that again, Greenwich Village Liberal that I was and am, there are moments when I feel horror and something really embarrassing…shame. Feeling s rise up and slam me. It’s easy to be tolerant of something foreign, no so easy to be the foreigner in a new land.