2004-05-06 - 10:03 p.m.
Don't know how many times the words build up just behind my lips, stacked clearly in that part of my brain right above and behind my eyes, neatly piled, taller and taller and taller until they all tumble down and tangle and clog the pathway that leads through my lips.
Can't talk about that, can't talk about that either, a voice argues. Then Wolfdog snarles and I get tired.
My client, a 53 year-old disabled woman, has never had her toenails painted. When asked why today, in physical therapy, she sort of laughed and said, "Well, I've never been able to reach my feet."
I've already placed four different shades of nail polish in my purse, so I don't forget tomorrow morning. I hope she picks the pink shade.
don't wanna talk about it
