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They will wait the next newyork post day and the next. And they will always wonder after me. And my mother is sobbing now, great sobs shaking her body, tears and snot newyork post running down her face, the exhaustion that comes after the execution, the exhaustion of the hangman who weeps after the trapdoor has been pulled, the prolonged newyork post involvement leading to the condemnedÕs death has left him susceptible to his most vulnerable emotions. And my mother suddenly scoops me into her arms and sits down in the kitchen chair clutching me tightly. Her fingers digging into my back. Her body heaves, waves of grief, and I go up and down in those waves. The oceanÕs moan in my ear. Tears for a lost family, poverty, uncertainty, tears for a distant, nonexistent husband. We sit there together, the three of us, she in the kitchen chair, I in her lap, the cockroach on the floor, fading away, itÕs life slowly ebbing from its pores. The moments. My motherÕs moments, my moments, the insectÕs moments, all together in one moment.
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