Isn’t it strange to see these walls bare? The smell of cats bleached out with Hi-Test that we stole for Gail’s hair, while she was stuck inside, bed-ridden, but trying to stay positive. While our hearts were breaking every second. Lugging our trash from back yard to front. The cuffs of our pants soak up the dew from grass that’s never been cut. The lifeline we’ve refined for years and years, dismantled to its component gears; broken down to these five remaining faces. And even after all we’ve been through, we’re still not sure what we should do. I can’t believe the cost assigned to what’s been lost, but maybe when the cheque comes in, there’ll be no illusions left and we can sort through the mess; find a way to assess the damage done. All of Gail’s things boxed up in the loft. There are no relatives to send them to, and we’ve kept the things we’d want: the stupid songs that she would sing all wrong; her short-cuts that took twice as long; her eyes, reflecting back the morning. So goodbye, I guess, to the things that can’t last. Goodbye, house, where we all talked away the abuses of our pasts. Where our poverty could not undo the love I have for all of you who are here, and the one that left us early. Chorus. Hold my hand one last time; whisper things to remind me of the way you’d whisper things to me.