novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- i loved the way her voice rose in shaky notes as she sang to the strays lora the building manager, an ancient eastern european artist with bright pink hair. cooking soup and wearing dickies, her arthritic hands shook as she waved to us. i pulled on my cowboy boots and wandered into the hall. on the phone with todd. a neighbor looked at me with large eyes. out through the front door i saw our landlord standing near the trash cans, talking to a few policemen. four police cruisers in a row outside our building. lora died yesterday. she fell in the bathtub. she was the sweetest, most intimidating, most artful old lady in the entire world. i'd sit outside and smoke and we'd talk to the stray cats while she watered her tiny garden. the garden she decorated for halloween. the second time i ever spoke to her she told me that she loved me. the second to last time i ever spoke to her, she said i should wear bright red lipstick. oh lora. 12:46 pm - 11.23.04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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