Red Room Where the Writers Are

We live long enough, and we all learn to live with higher levels of pain. It is eight oclock on a Sunday morning. I am happier than I have ever been in college.  I love plants. I love row crop nematodes. I love bees. Comes a knock on my dorm room door. The Zobels are there, they have been crying. No problems with word economy. "David died in a car wreck about four hours ago." I gather my bags and go home to be with my mother and my baby brother. March 12, 1976. Someone has taken my flowers again. I spend the next twenty five years trying to give them away and trying to get them back.