|
"Ye the voice inside my head be. Ye the voice that bore and fed me." A young man learns that his mother's death is far from the end of the relationship. The problem may seem that she is haunting him to avenge "the heartbreak of dying before she could ever hold a grandchild in her withering arms," but something deeper is churning. They just can't put their finger on it. Literally. They cannot touch. "Damn it, let me know you love me!" So they'll keep arguing about why he quit his stable job as an accountant to become a poet — and why he can't find the right girl, and why he can't clean anything else with her potato sponge — until they can figure out why they keep arguing instead of expressing the incredible frustrated love they have never been able to communicate. "A saint she ain't, but I got no complaint, for Heaven knows her love is divine." You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll go home and call your mother. If you're lucky enough to be able to. |
|||||||
 |
|||||||
 |
|||||||
