December, 1986 The weather forecast has turned its satelite on the TV so we can watch the speckles, which is snow, he says in Colorado, Washington and upstate New York. Once, in Manhattan, a French Catholic who left her boyfriend in the lobby, walked in 2 feet of snow to visit me. She gave me a dollar for Hannukah, and her mercurial gaze, adoring as I babbled about my baby and showed her the stationary I made, was infinite, the green moistness of her eyes, so feminine, so perfect, a servant. The snow on TV is making a zagzag across the states, much like all the good runs on the slopes at Purgatory, Colorado. When I think of my friend and her boyfriend skiing and this meteorologist, there is no similiarity, but once, Jesus touched me through the TV, and this French woman, she was like Jesus, if he has green eyes, to me for awhile, while the snow kept falling in New York, the absence of streets, of people's skin showing, the mixture of light and stars and whiteness, the color of silences, my child in some room in intensive care, and me in the psychiatric ward for eight months because I had no money, my hands small and ineffective, my voice smaller, my meek hungry anger.