We're All Blessed And We're

To Be Silent. In Hopes Of Not Offending, In Hopes Of Being Accepted. But What Happened To People Who Never Spoke, Never Raised Their Voices? Kept Everything Inside? Gamache Knew What Happened. Everything They Swallowed, Every Word, Thought, Feeling Rattled Around Inside, Hollowing The Person Out. And Into That Chasm They Stuffed Their Words, Their Rage.

In Winter The Very Ground Seemed To Reach Up And Grab The Elderly, Yanking Them To Earth As Though Hungry For Them.

The Leaves Had Fallen From The Trees And Lay Crisp And Crackling Beneath His Feet. Picking One Up He Marveled, Not For The First Time, At The Perfection Of Nature Where Leaves Were Most Beautiful At The Very End Of Their Lives.

Every Year The Hunters Shot Cows And Horses And Family Pets And Each Other. And Unbelievably, They Sometimes Shot Themselves, Perhaps In A Psychotic Episode Where They Mistook Themselves For Dinner

The Women In The Room Chatted About Love, About Childhood, About Losing Parents, About Mr. Spock, About Good Books They'd Read. They Mothered Each Other.