She loved the sheets with the daisies, yellow and white, with a border of overly saturated yellow lace and the daisies arranged on a vining garland of green leaves. She ran her hand purposefully along the border, measuring out set distances, then gathering the fabric together, cinching each segment one hand closing against the other. She then transferred the gathered material, and stretched it out again. She repeated the process, gathering and stretching, over and over, with single-minded deliberation. Some forty minutes passed with increasingly frantic activity on her part, the sheet systematically revolving in measured increments, spinning around slowly at first, then in a maddening clockwork gaining momentum in a disheartening eddy of yellow and white petals, all mirroring the confusion and desperation that had overtaken her mind. She lifted up the border, looking up at me with pleading eyes. “I tried to make it beautiful”, she said. “It is beautiful”, I responded, as my heart sank inside of me. “God, why do you hate me?” I almost said it aloud as I gritted my teeth, not to let it slip out, and turning aside, I wiped away some tears that had begun to pool. I could not ease her trouble; I was drowning in a whirlpool of white and yellow daises.