The vision I have of her always is the vision of her in Dean Cassady joy, hunched over a pool table, her luscious Spanish lips pursed as she made long runs and pissed off her male opponents, jabbing and stabbing at their warped male perception of the female inferior pool skills. She'd smile at me, roll her eyes coyly, take a couple of hurried drags from a DuMaurier and a couple of sips of her tequilla, and settle back to the table to eliminate a few more balls. I have no vision of hr as wife and mother. She sent me a picture of her with her first born son on her lap. It wasn't her. The smile was her's, those wonderful lips were her's, those beautiful eyes were her's---but her hair was different--married hair--and there ws a calmness to her. For in my vision of her she still stomps joyously into twisted states, dancing wildly to Blue Rodeo, sexing ecstatic, living full bloom with an impish smile and a roll of her eyes. It is the vision I love.