She believed that good came from heartbreak,
this was a naive notion she had adopted as a child,
when she lost more than one love to the advent of the automobile and the bathtub gin,
She believed that great change only came from pain and loss,
and when we told her that there had been remarkable things in this life that were the consequence of good and only good,
she struggled with this sentiment,
She was a very rich girl,
rich in material,
and in her life lied the remnants of good family luck in the Gold Rush,
and then smart accidents during Reconstruction,
and now the syndrome of desired invisibility from October and the crash,
Her father told her she would only ever be as good as the company she kept,
and since the lightning bugs here had been dimming in their youth,
and since the flappers and dappers had perished,
either by the deaths of their imagination,
or their boredom with the provoking and revoking of prohibition,
or with a simple resignation of breath,
she figured if you can't beat them, join them
No one quite understood grief the way she did,
what she could have done with it after all these years,
not even she,
and in an eroding little home at the edge of a dying metropolis,
down a slim and narrow corridor that smelled of decaying nostalgists,
she felt unproductive,
incomplete,
still in pursuit of the elusive pain that once made her the pride of the deserved few
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