Dear Cyndy,

My apologies for the delay in answering your letter. It's  been a hectic
week, with diverse visitors, my cousin Marion, Margaret's two physician
brothers Alex and Peter and her sister Janet,  - all of them critical of
me for not hiring help which I don't need and don't want, with disagreements
about what to tell and what to withhold from a delusional 91 year old woman 
who has lost all memories, but knows somehow that she is dying, is afraid 
of being buried alive, pleads with me "don't bury me", and asks "Shall I 
put a label on the box saying that I am still alive?" So I get scolded for 
trying to attenuate the mindless Goodbyes, to squelch the discussion about 
the house across the street that is for sale, scolded for "being 
condescendent to my sister", and dishonest for not "telling her the truth."
What's going on strikes me as a hybrid between a soap opera and a novel - 
or a play waiting to be written. But tonight I'm too tired to begin, it's too
late and tomorrow morning I have to change Margaret, hoist her into her
rocking chair using the hydraulic lift, fix and feed her breakfast,
after which she'll be tired and ask to be put back to bed.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.

That's not a nice way to bid you good night, but this evening
it's the best I can do.

Jochen