My sense of time is very confused - The sad case of Bill and Cindy - Poem for my Father

Sweltering, I turned on the AC, found the Detour direx to Moms, and off I went.

Wore this dress I bought in Ocean City, NJ, with the bell sleeves that wind up in your soup.

Before I left, Scott and I watched THE TATTOOED WOMAN on Film Noir. What am I talking about? We slept thru it.

Then I went into my upstairs office, trained the fan on me, and entered my short story GWEN IFILL IS DEAD into Mad Swirl.

Most Americans, including Rem, have no idea who she is. In fact, when she died I ran over to Scott's
went upstairs and screamed those very words.

We were devastated.

At Mom's I said I have a true story to tell you.

Thru New Directions a man named Bill begged me to take on Cindy as a client. We had met a couple of times at meetings. Our therapy tho took place over the phone. I charged her $20 a session. She was a hoarder and was gonna get kicked out of her apartment, so I hired SENIORS HELPING SENIORS to clear it out. I told Cindy it was a volunteer org tho I was paying $20 an hour. She was allowed to stay in the apartment.

The woman hated everything and everybody.

Our sessions were once or twice a week. I walked down the street talking to her. The woman NEVER did a thing I said and I was waiting to say the words, which I finally did.

"Cindy, I can't work with you anymore."

Click. I hung up on her. She did call me back several times but I did not respond.

Finally the woman had nowhere to live.

Bill refused to bail her out.

"I'm killing myself," she wrote Bill, and she did.

I suggested we hold a funeral for her at our next meeting, but Bill didn't show up, so we never did.

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The above would make a good short story but I usually don't write about mentally ill people, tho I is one, or used to be.

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Woke up from a nap at Scott's now. The clock read 4:30. I was so confused I couldn't understand it.

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Got a Yahrzeit notice for my father. I actually wrote the funeral home in Cleveland and said Stop sending me these notices.

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LETTER TO DAD

You will not believe what your 96-year-old widow
said about you. You were born with a tooth
in your mouth.

Can we believe her?

Dad, the world spins without you.

At my volunteer job, when we play bingo,
my heart, soul and inner being strums
like the Barber Adagio when the numeral
59 is called.

59. It could be the number of a school bus,
the winning number from a horse race, but
these are meaningless.

It's the age you died.
59. And the world has never
been the same without you.

- Love, Ruthie