Woody you old coot. When you finally died you left Liz with little more than memories. She was never supposed to be one of those sob stories, but she is now. Her memories can’t pay the bills, and they won’t keep her from being evicted. So I am yellin at you now even though you can’t hear me, I’ll yell till I’m hoarse and tired. Tired enough to fall asleep without thinking about old Liz, covered in costume jewelry trying hard to convince herself that the cut glass and plastic is really no different than the real gems she used to have, but knowing damn well the truth.

Her eyes don’t sparkle like they were made to Woody. Instead they sit sad beneath her drawn on eyebrows and stare off into the distance constantly when she sits outside smoking. Woody I’m not tryin to blame you, but I think you need to know. It’s not your fault you went from being a successful man that was givin Liz everything he promised, to being a goofy old loon. No one knew you had a bunch of wires in your head that were set to cross when you got to sixty. Your own bad brain with its ticking time bomb is to blame, some collection of chemicals decided it was time for you to go awol, never to return.

You two went from living out of steamer trunks while traveling the world, to being holed up in a single bedroom apartment on the bad side of town. She filled the apartment with notes to you, notes everywhere and on everything. ‘Don’t turn on the stove’, ‘Don’t touch the thermostat’, ‘Don’t run the water’, ‘Don’t go outside’, they all told you not to do something because damnit Woody you had no business doing anything. All day long you’d sit there clueless, hitting the speed dial on the big phone in the kitchen with the note that says ‘Liz’. All day long Liz would be answering her phone at a job that grew increasingly frustrated with her.

“No no, It’s Okay” she would say, trailing off as she walked out of the room.

If only this thing that punched holes through your brain happened in a flash, instead of gradually. Maybe then Liz could have saved your fortune from your once strong business smart hands that slowly turned into a wrinkled colander. She never had to pay attention to the finances, you kept that burden to yourself, and continued to do so even when you weren’t fit to bare it.

Here we are now. You just in the ground, and Liz walking around an apartment covered in sticky notes. What will happen to her? She will continue to work as long as she can, or for as long as they will employ her, but a day will come when one of those gives out. Should I wish her the same clueless mind that crept up on you so she won’t have to know what she is going through? Damn it to hell Woody, it’s all so horrible.