10/5/89 Here in the house of the old woman who dies tonight I am a child again making new, smaller words of "miraculous" searching the upstairs rooms for ghosts breathing the cookie air and shy, so shy it makes my heart feel new again for a moment only until I too large for this house sit in the chair she used to sit in-- a crack opens in my heart and runs to my eyes which refuse to see anything that is not in front of them and I understand at last how death is kind individually: it takes away one person's sorrows