and follow you around the room. The fingers on one hand play with a long strand of pearls and the other hand elegantly holds a cigarette holder, long black and sleek.” He looked up across the table at Mom’s face. “Very tasteful, artistically done.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

Finally I closed my eyes and fell asleep.  Dreams. Some poet says that greatest dread of being dead would be to dream no more or something like that.  Mine  were filled with gangsters, the classic kind in black and white fedoras and Tommy guns, fancy cars, nightclubs, scantily clad dancers glued in to their sequined costumes who looked remarkably like Angel and Loretta, and elaborate funerals with large floral arrangements with banners that bid farewell to George. Bonnie...

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