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2003-05-22 - 8:35 p.m. About August 2001 I went to visit my mother in the lock-down psych unit. It was early afternoon. She was lying on her bed, wearing white socks, tan slacks, a white blouse with decorative stitching and a pink sweater. Her white hair was shiny and clean. She lay on her side, one of her 80-year-old hands holding a rosary, the other holding my hand. Her eyes were closed. She was crying, but there were no tears. She said to me, "I'm crying, but I have no tears." � 
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