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CHAIN STITCHES

By

Karen Marie Williams

A THESIS

Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

Department of English

1985

t/rw

ABSTRACT

CHAIN STITCHES
By

Karen Marie Williams

The chain stitch is the most fundamental of the
crochet stitches. Yet when a piece of work, perhaps
an afghan, is laid aside, it is also the least discernible
of the stitches. It is the first step you take in the
making; it is what holds it all together in the end.

Each of these poems represents one stitch. Together,
they are a very small part of the tapestry of human
existence. But the people and the encounters they
portray are vital in its weaving, and have been vital
in my existence. The emotions and experiences they
depict are known to many of us, and I believe they are

some of the roots that link us in humanity.

To Leonore Hendryx,

with love

ii

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would first like to thank Douglas Lawder, who
directed my work on this thesis. His many brilliant
insights have helped me gain a new perspective on both
my poetry and poetry in general. It will, perhaps, be
several years before the full effects of his influence
can be seen in my poems. The more I write, the more I
understand the importance of what he has taught me.

Linda Wagner has provided me with many, many hours
of guidance and support. It was her encouragement and
instruction that opened the door to writing for me.

For that, and for all the help she has given, pulling
me through many rough times, I will be forever indebted.
I am also very grateful to Diane Wakoski. Her
critical acumen and her refusal to accept anything less
than she felt I was capable of, have helped sharpen my

skills and have unearthed new paths for me.

For his unending patience, I offer appreciation
to Howard Anderson. He has provided me with direction
throughout my work on this degree. He has also helped
me more clearly comprehend the role of the reader, and

the responsibilities of the poet when she writes.

iii

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Survivors.................................................1
Mrs. T....................................................3
The Letters...............................................6
First Snow................................................8
Mrs. Willis...............................................9
Granddad.................................................11
Conquering Fear..........................................13
The Seer.............. ..... ..............................15
Oedipus..................................................18
Great Aunt Esther........................................19
Beaten...................................................21
Chain Stitches........ ............. . ........... .... ..... .23
Uncle. ....... ...... .................... ........ ........ ..26
Aftermath of an Argument.......... ...... . ...... ..........28
Parting..................................................29
First Born...............................................31
Funeral Home Feast.......................................33
Marionette...............................................35
Under Pretense of Infanticide............................37
Periscope................................................39
Clinging to Bannisters...................................42
Progress.................................................44

iv

First Words.............................................46
But When We Know........................................48
Magical Healers.........................................50
Peppermint Sticks....... ....... ... ......... .............53
Remembering Megan.......................................56
To L.H..................................................57
In Memory...............................................59
Beginnings..............................................60
Hurry Home..............................................61

The Apple PoemOOIOOOOOOOOOOOOOOIOO0.0.00000000000000000062

Survivors

You used to tease me.

Waterlilies

in the pond

on our farm.

You said they were so

out of place.

Something delicate,
exquisite,
quietly surviving

our common lives.

I think about the pond,

its water.

The many rains.
The years of accumulation.

And the lilies--

they survive like buoys,
life preservers.

Even after a heavy rain.

It's been three years

since you drowned.

And eight months.

I have never quite forgiven you.

This morning,

the lilies are misted with dew.

They seem less clear,

like I sometimes wish

my memories were of you.

Mrs. T

You went to the same church
every Sunday
for the seven years I knew you,

never missing one service.

It was the church you grew up in.
It was the church

Andrew Borden attended

until he was murdered with his wife

on August 4th of 1892.

They said his daughter did it,

said Lizzie took a hatchet

and hacked away,

delivering ten blows to her father's body,

nineteen to her stepmother's.

And I'd never even heard of Lizzie Borden

until I met you.

You found my ignorance appalling

and quickly straightened me out,

sharing second-hand accounts of the trial,

taking me to the Fall River Historical Socety
where they had photographs

and blood samples

and the axhead,

showing me the site of the murders
and the home Lizzie lived in
until her death

and even the family graves.

I was ten, then.

Your name has been synonymous to me

with Lizzie Borden's

ever since, and you

were the only person I've ever known

who sincerely believed in her innocence,

who agreed with the jury who freed her.

It was not until five years had passed

that you told me of your own parents' deaths
just one week apart,

just one month after your wedding.

It was a marriage they had forbidden,
despite your age of thirty.

You walked out of the house in anger,

after an argument,

and never spoke to them again.

And it was on that Sunday
I understood

why you attended that church with such regularity

what kind of religion you practiced there
why you claimed Lizzie Borden was innocent
and why you clung to that conviction

for life.

The Letters

We have set the distance
between us now,

perhaps finalized it,

with these letters,

mailed

even the same day.

Like two dragons

we have sent them-—

one Chinese, in celebration,
and the other real,

spitting flame.

You write to me,
saying our friendship is over.
I write to you, asking

if we can begin again.

Now, the relationship
is vague as clouds,
and I am not wanting

to relinquish you as friend.

Two more letters?
Will you answer what I send?

Since you moved,

things have become so unclear.
I was angry with the distance.
Are you angry with me

for letting you go?

Your words burn,

like a glassmaker's flame.
I want the glass whole,
but cool, clear;

I want to hold it,

look through it,

to see what we can find

and renew.

First Snow

Flurries scar the sidewalk,

color melting

like the bad witch

at water's touch.

Soon, there will be nothing left.
Flakes growing like tissue

to mend some hideous sore.

New skin, pure as a baby's,
stretched on a frame of old bones.
Whiteness struggling to smother the creaks.
A human steps through, carving

a wrinkle——not even earned.

Mrs. Willis

There was the time

Mrs. Willis had attended old Mr. Bailey's funeral,
and he sat upright in his coffin

in the middle of the eulogy.

This was back when embalming

was still considered a "new" procedure,

and the town undertaker

was also the town furniture—maker.

Mr. Bailey's rheumatism crippled him so badly
that he walked all hunched over.

They had to tie him down with ropes

to flatten him out enough

for a regular casket.

But the ropes couldn't take the pressure,

and half-way through the service,

they broke.

And it was also true

that a childhood friend

had died of the ague,

had been placed in a large family tomb.
Twelve years after her death,

when they reopened the vault

to place the child's mother there,

they found a tiny skeleton

10

huddled next to the door
-—eight feet

from where her body had been laid.

But, at ninety—three,

eccentricity and claustrophobia were blamed
for the demand in her will

that an electronic buzzer

be installed in her casket,

her casket to be stored

in an above—ground vault.

The control, complete with lighted dial,

would be placed between her hands

-—the way some people hold flowers,

or a Bible.

ll

Granddad

White hair.

Creviced face.

Clothes disheveled.

An overlay of flab at the belt,
pulling at the last notch.

He walked old.

the flat ground——too steep.

He came slowly toward me.
Broad, yellow—tooth grin,

and eyes-~

even the blue was faded.

You.

I had wondered why you had begun
to treat me so young, so suddenly.
You, who had been my best friend,
with no time to listen now.

You send out words,

not seeming to care

if they're found.

Words, piling up between us.

I'm sorry for my silence.

I've always known you'd die,

but I never thought

you'd grow old.

12

l3

Conquering Fear

I wish I could follow Faulkner's advice
when he said we should recognize our fears
and then forget them.

Not the little apprehensions--

like dinner turning out right--

but the major fears

that affect me

and my life.

When I was eleven,

I lived next door

to a ninety—seven—year—old woman,

still living in the house she was born in.
She was a cantankerous woman,

and I was afraid of her.

Mrs. Leland, I soon learned,

was not afraid of anything.

One night,

a man broke into her house

searching for her Social Security check.
Mrs. Leland, asleep upstairs,

was roused by his noise.

She rose from bed, and hollered

to her long-dead husband:

14

"Albert, get the gun.

There's a man downstairs!"

I want to be able
to call to someone long dead,
to some imaginary friend

with a non-existent gun.

The burglar, frightened,

left.

15

The Seer

In a row of dreary shops

shadowed by green awnings,

yours was the one that offered life.

We came to you
because of the
because of the

and because we

as children
bright garments you sold,
windows of cheap jewelry which sparkled,

liked the challenge

of browsing under your stern eyes.

You dressed as

we thought a gypsy would,

and we imagined you had special powers.

When I was eleven,

you had a booth at our church fair

reading palms behind black curtains for a dollar.

You seemed troubled when you took myhand,

hesitated before saying

I would not reach nineteen

in this life.

I was startled

by your words

and by the sincerity of your voice.

I kept your prediction quiet--

16

where it would haunt me—-
thinking it foolish to be upset

by an eccentric old woman.

Perhaps it was just a cruel joke.

Three years later, you were brought
to a youth group meeting as speaker, told us
of cases where you'd help the police locate bodies,

of how they now came to you for help.

You demonstrated your talents,
telling one boy he repaired trucks and cars,
telling a girl her parents had recently divorced,

telling another her father's injury would heal.

No matter what you said,

you were right.

And there was nothing I could do

except wait.

By the time I was eighteen,

I had grown used to death.

I had grown used to carrying its threat around with me.
And I had created my own vision of death

that left me nothing to fear but dying.

17

As that year drew to a close, I was torn
between increasing anxiety
and self-mockery

that I had listened to you at all.

And now, I can't help but wonder

why you made that prediction.

Has some fatal incident been foiled?

Or were you simply helping a young girl
to accept her own limitations

so she could learn to live

within them?

18

Oedipus

The pin slips through
—-no eye of a needle——
but easily, gently.
Lids open, accepting.
A violence

well-intended.

19

Great Aunt Esther

IhxeistflafltnflneremnfidiauIntindafihtuxeiSGMychfim&£.

We used to visit you

after church on Sundays

at the Home for the Aged.

You couldn't get around very well,
and weren't able to attend

the regular service.

You had a Southern Baptist upbringing,

and found religion in everything.

Your one inconsistency,
I had thought,

was a checkerboard set up in your room.

We used to ask if we could play.
You said never on Sundays.
We visited you on other days.

You said never then, too.

It was always dusted.

The pieces perfectly lined up.

It took me years to understand

what you saw in that game,

20

that it was not the game you were protecting,

but the people who might play it.

You loved us too much

to let us lose.

21

Beaten

I could feel nothing

except his open hands slamming against my face
and his fists pounding into my body
and I could hear

only his shouting

his swearing

at me, pouring over me

I could see

a blur of this massive flesh
encompassing me

burying me

I could taste

the blood in my mouth

I could say nothing

I could only cry

Then

as the storm continued

and I, blinded

my hands found what they were searching for
without my mind knowing what that was

or my heart

and I picked it up

and he stopped

and he fell

22

without meaning to
either him or me
and it was over
and he was gone

and I thought I was free

But the people

But the people

didn't understand

that he wouldn't stop

that he wouldn't stop

and that I didn't mean to hurt him

but that something had to give.

Was it supposed to have been me?

23

Chain Stitches

I knew her,

when a child,

as the lady down the street

who made the pretty coat hangers.
She and my grandmother

would spend hours together,
crocheting beautiful covers

in delicate pastels,

always with tight yarns

and thin needles,

so they were soft and touchable.
They didn't look

like coat hangers

at all.

Six months ago,

my grandmother was called
to her friend's deathbed
to hear something

"no one else would understand."

She told
how she had twice
performed abortions on herself

during the Depression,

24

with seven children already
and her husband
out of work.

' she said.

"No more hungry eyes,’
That night she died.
When my grandmother came home,

she was carrying bundles

of her friend's hangers,

hangers they had crocheted together

on long, silent afternoons

when I had wondered why they were so quiet,

why they didn't talk.

Then my grandmother

led me to her own attic, pulled out
boxes of all the coat hangers

I had ever seen her make

and more.

She packed her friend's there,

with her own,

treating them more gently

than old family photographs.

That done,
she pulled her friend's crochet needles

from her apron pocket

25

and handed them to me.

' she said.

"You need to know about crocheting,‘
"You're old enough now.

Every woman

should know how."

26

Uncle,

I would stuff your mouth
like a pig
with an apple

for roasting.

It is too empty.

Too many teeth

frame the hollow.

You lean back
laughing
laughing
and never

stop.

Your mouth gapes, like an eye,
trying to swallow me,
me or anyone else

within hearing.

They tell me it's a tumor.

You don't know what you're doing.

But even after you're gone

with your laughing,

laughing...

I'll still hear it.

27

28

Aftermath of an Argument

With a puff of smoke from your cigarette,

I try dissolving into air.

Your cool manner betrays.
The paper you so gently filled,
carefully rolled,

jiggles in your hand.

Your eyes withdraw
sitting solid, glazed.
Words slip between us.

I am paled by your voice.

The cigarette leans on the table.

I sense its quick, round burn.

29

Parting

Your face goes blank

as a still bell.

Silence

cushions the clapper--
it hangs mute

as our tongues.
Wordlessness

resounds,

tugs our eyes

to the table between us.

We do not see each other.

It does not matter

who first said goodbye,
or why.

It only matters

that this will be

our last meal

together,

that the closure

of our time

is cast

with a dumb toll.

With air still devoid of sound,

30

I watch your sigh.

You push your chair back,
consider the costs,

leave

to pay the bill.

31

First Born

This pain should unify.

I give myself to her.

The child within me, gone.
Two children, if you please,
now one.

The child I was,

that wouldn't grow up,

then her,

new thing

the doctor holds out.

I play inspector.
Do I want it to keep?
It's a girl.

Oh, I see.

Two of each.

Five of these.
She'll do fine.
Comes complete
with a role

I must try,

a new name

I shall wear

all my life.

My new life.

32

For a part of me 3

gone.

Child.

I can hold.

This one

I can touch.

Yet she wanted out.

Or did I want her out?
Something's empty

inside.

33

Funeral Home Feast

Surely, death must become me.
I was never so pretty alive.
People gathered around,
staring and talking,

as if I were the turkey:

a Thanksgiving feast,
garnished with flowers.

The dressing, my best.
Tears, basting me

in a rectangular pan.

Lid open, I am exposed

to critical eyes.

Where are your forks

and your knives?

I have heard the grace said.
Now why the delay?

Is it my temperature

that betrays?

Neither hot nor cold.

A skin difficult to brown.
Yet try me. You see?

I am all juice.

And my meat, so tender.

But the oven's still warm.

You may cook me more.

 

34

Make me pure to eat.

The heat, the heat.

I am 22£_too big.

You may cut me in half,

if you choose,

so I fit.

I have lived for this feast.

Do not bury me.

35

Marionette

My mirror betrays.

The reflection is light:

white skin,

moon face.

There must be a candle inside,

incandescing.

My appearance,
not real.
I feel nothing:
darkness,

stuffing.

A miner hollowed me out,
chiseling, picking

me barren.

He dug to the skin
before stopping, afraid
I'd collapse,

killing.

Now I dance.
A marionette,
you or anyone can control,

pulling strings.

36

Watch me respond.
See my legs,

how they flop?
Limp arms bend.

A hunched torso moves.

You would think me alive.
Do I fool?
My show's free

for the asking.

37

Under Pretense of Infanticide

It is S a.m.
and I have slept three hours

in as many days.

You came into this house four months ago
like a miniature Trojan horse,
hidden beneath white cotton

and Pampers.

Your cries have been scraping my ears
like fingernails on a chalkboard,

and I want to turn my fingernails
back on you,

across your jugular.

Most would call me viscious,
uncaring.
But this impulse is as "natural"

as motherhood.

I know I betray

all the madonna and child portraits
American advertising ejaculates,
but somehow

they keep pictures of

38

colic
and fatigue
and single—parenthood

in the reservoir—tip.

It's not like I've done something wrong to you,

or you're doing something wrong to me.

This is as natural
as beet-stained bibs

and dirty diapers.

This is part of having a child

and growing up with one.

So while I wear away

my fuzzy bedroom shoes

and the eggshell carpeting beneath your rocker,
help me to remember:

my mother did this for me,

and the legacy must go on.

But for now,

just please

let the crying stop.

39

Periscope

The mirror catches

a kind of reality

and passes it

down,

within,

to another mirror,

then to eyes

that feel.

If there were no need to hide,

would there be periscopes?

I slip down
down

into myself
and curl.

A ball.

A knot.

A fist.

There are no eyes in a fist.

40

I tighten,

tighten.

The world is above,

beyond.

And I want to see.
I need, to survive,

t0 see 0

Yet also,
to survive,
I cannot
extend
unroll

reach out.

The periscope,

a kind of thumb,

surfaces

for me,

because of me,

with

41

a part of me.

Safely, then,

I can survey,

and the fist

begins opening.

42

Clinging to Bannisters

In my grandparents' house,

a vine crawls up the stairs,
encompassing

one by one

the rails.

My grandfather,
retired barber,
tells stories of his days

behind the chair.

Photographs abound on walls and tables.

Frozen moments of childhood.

You would think their grandchildren
were still young.

The most recent shot of me, at age twelve.

My grandmother keeps newer pictures
in a drawer.

He will not look at them.

I talk to my grandfather,
feigning the innocence

of the young

43

to please him. He will not accept

I'm growing, have grown.

He turns the television off after Welk

to share more tales;

clips my grandmother's vine
so it cannot reach

another rail.

44

Progress

Great—Uncle Fritz was a man
who did not believe in change

simply for the sake of progress.

He allowed electricity into his home

because it was safer than kerosene and candles.
He allowed a telephone

because sometime his wife might need help

and the closest neighbor was more than a mile.

But indoor plumbing was for the lazy.
Uncle Fritz considered it foolish

to run water into a house

where a spring ran fifty feet away;
to hook up a toilet

when the outhouse wasn't much farther

than the spring.

Besides, every year he dug a new outhouse
and on the location of the old,

planted pumpkins.

And every year, Uncle Fritz

grew the biggest pumpkins in the county.
He laughed about the small ones

he saw in town, and said

45

he guessed they were signs

of progress.

He once confided in me

that his greatest disappointment in life
was knowing that his sons

would bury him in a bought coffin.

His children were city-folks now

and they didn't understand his ways.

It was a tradition in Uncle Fritz's family

that the sons always built their father's coffin.
He recalled working on his own father's

with his brothers,

refusing to rush despite the July heat,

carefully smoothing and fitting the pieces.

He felt they were building something good

from their sadness, worried his sons

would carry their grief with them.

I cringed at the funeral,

his lanky, ninety—three-year-old body stretched
in a polished grey casket with satin lining,

a hard bed for a man

who always slept on feathers.

46

First Words

I watch the wheels turn,

pushing my grandfather's wheelchair
around the hospital grounds,

trying to avoid

stones and holes and bumps.

I remember the tires

on the wheelbarrow

he rode me in

when I was a child.

Such a difference in size,

the speed of the turn.

My grandfather is trying

to recover from a stroke,

trying to overcome the paralysis
which keeps him confined, quiet.
He has always been

a talkative man,

telling stories and jokes.

He has always been active,
working in his barbershop,
teaching Sunday school,

tending garden and henhouse.

He used to push me around

47
in the wheelbarrow,
partly because I enjoyed the ride,
partly because I was too little and slow
to keep up with im.
He would stop to point out
flowers, trees, birds;
would repeat their names
until I had learned to say them,
in the broken syllables

of someone learning to talk.

Now we go through the gardens
and stop to examine the flowers,
struggle with the sounds

in the name

"rose."

48

But When We Know...

'Tader,fixghmtmem:firtmqvhxwrnthmthqlmL"

Last summer, my grandfather

again told me

of his arrival in a South Carolina town
on a Saturday night

some sixty years ago.

He had come to accept

his first position as barber.

Leaving the train station,

he heard shouts, saw lights,
and followed them

until he found a mob

of twenty angry white men
preparing to lynch a black man

for the rape of a white woman.

He knew he could not stop them,

felt the power in their fervor,

and turned to walk away

when his eyes were caught by the black man's,
terror—filled eyes that understood

why there could be no help.

"The look of a man

who knows he's going to die,

49

knows why, and knows

it doesn't make sense."

My grandfather directed his feet
away from there,
but heard the snap of the rope

as it pulled tight around the tree limb.

Then he opened the Bible on his lap,
showed me a drawing of Christ on the cross,
of people gathered around his feet,

wanting to help.

I hate that my grandfather

didn't stop that night.

And I hate what not stopping has done to him.
I hate knowing

that I would have kept walking, too.

SO

Magical Healers

My grandfather has become

quite eccentric about moles—-

in his yard, his garden.

Spring and summer, he is obsessed

with tracking them down, these creatures
whose tunnels he regards as scars,
marring ground that should

appear perfect from his labor.

His efforts are quite practical,

and he stays updated

on the latest poisons and traps.

But the moles keep appearing,

like bad memories, recurring nightmares,
and my grandfather

keeps plotting.

I thought he'd forgotten

that his own mother

only killed them for a purpose,
when she needed

their magical healing powers;
they were considered special
because of their resemblance

to the buried dead.

51

It was a mole's paw,

strung around his neck,

that cured his croup as a child.

And when he burned for days with fever,

she feared he was lost

until she strangled a mole with her thumbs,
and the fever broke.

These remedies, recorded

in her recipe book.

Later pages held her thoughts
of a son who went to war

-—or so I'm told.

Those pages missing,

torn out by my grandfather
when he returned from Europe.
Those months: lost time

about which he's never spoken,
about which my grandmother's
admonished me never to question,
only saying

something must have happened.

Now I realize my grandfather
is following his mother's tradition.

Moles do have special healing powers

52

—-or he must wish they do--
as he struggles to keep them dead,

where they cannot forever haunt him.

53

Peppermint Sticks

He moved the barber pole

from outside his shop

to his basement door

after the stroke, and continues

to cut the hair of friends

in the styles he learned at barber school

sixty years ago.

Like my grandfather, those men
have been wearing their hair
the same way those sixty years;
the only alterations,

attempts to cover thinning.

He keeps a jar

filled with peppermint sticks
on the counter

above his drawer of shears.
They were his favorite candy
as a child, and his customers
love to suck on them and talk

while waiting their turn.

My grandfather is not

a man of changes, and not

54

a man we can show change to.

I still pound out his favorite hymns
on the piano

every time I visit,

hymns his mother raised him with,
hymns he still sings

at the Presbyterian church

every Sunday.

He drives the same black Chevrolet,
"Old Betsy,"

he's had for thirty years.

He still calls his wife "Mother"
although their youngest child

is over forty.

He's spent his life

in a small mill town, hemmed in

by the mountains of North Carolina.
Now, his doctor has told him

he can never go up, into the mountains
and out of the town, for the increase

in pressure

would kill him.

This came as safe news for a man

who's never wanted to leave,

55

and this advice he follows, ignoring
the doctor's prescribed diet
which prohibits his sucking

on peppermint sticks.

56

Remembering Megan

My arms are light
in their empty circle,

though you never were heavy:

a hug of intricacy and softness,
maze of promises,

and love--

love you returned,

understanding?

Now the air
lies stagnant in your room

without breath to stir it,

and I still hear your cries at night,
yet have no reason

to get up.

57

To L. H.

Is it better

to talk about it,

or do you try to forget--
as much as you can?

If you can?

I want to ask you,

but hesitate.

What does it feel like
to know
you only have a few months

left to live?

What do you need

from me?

We live in silence.
We live
day by day.

Day by day towards...

Is it death
or dying

that scares us?

58

What do you feel

besides fear?

--I make assumptions.

Leave the dead, they always say.

But what of the dying?

What of love?

59

In Memory

Slipping your picture off the wall,

my fingers caress your face, trying

to recall curves, textures, warmth.

Instead, there is only

the cold of the frame,

the smooth hardness of glass.

6O

Beginnings

LINEHjfimRnofSumdmgkfifll

Why is getting close
always so hard?

Hmmm?

We seemed to do it in spite of ourselves.

We tripped, yet fell in the right direction,

landing on top of each other,

literally.

One of us had the decency to laugh.

Then there was the fumbling
and apologizing,
when we weren't really sorry at all.

(The kind of accident you hope keeps happening.)

Next came the
oh-how-do—I—meet-this-person—again

dilemma.

Well, I hadn't really
read the book you were carrying.

Yet.

61

Hurry Home

I never knew how much I missed you

until every person I saw with sandy hair
was suddenly transformed into you,
arriving home, early,

for a surprise.

I went to the shopping mall today.

There were swarms of you there.

I only missed you more

as I noticed their walk different from yours,
their hair parted neatly,

hands that didn't hide in pockets,

the many differences that made them not you--

things I don't even notice when you're here.

Tonight, I lie alone,
wondering for how many days

strangers will mean so much to me.

62

The Apple Poem

It's been two weeks since your move.

The bag of apples you left in the refrigerator

is starting to rot.

I can't bring myself to throw them out.

I know it doesn't mean
I'm throwing away our relationship——

what we had.

But the apples are a reminder of you
and throwing them out, well,

that takes me--

me alone.

It's something I know

I have to do.

But,
if you're not busy

Tuesday night,

the apples

will still be there.

63

NW

178 6456

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