密涅瓦只比我大一點點，可她已經有兩個孩子和一個出走的丈夫。她媽媽獨自撫養了孩子們，看來她的女兒也要走她的老路了。因為她運氣這樣糟，密涅瓦哭呀哭。每個夜晚每個白天。並且祈禱。不過，在喂完孩子們煎餅晚餐後，他們就睡著了，她會在小紙片上寫詩。那紙片她折了又折，捏在手裡很長時間了，聞起來像一角硬幣的小紙片。
她讓我讀她的詩。我讓她讀我的。她總是悲傷得像一所著了火的房子——總是有什麼出了問題。她麻煩太多了，最大的麻煩就是她丈夫會出走，而且不停地出走。
一天她不想再忍了，她讓他知道夠了就是夠了。從門裡出去的是他。從窗戶里出去的是他的衣服、唱片和鞋子，門鎖上了。可那晚他又回來了，從窗戶扔進來一塊大石頭。然後他很難過，她就又開了門。老故事。
過了一個星期她渾身青紫地跑過來問她該怎麼辦？密涅瓦。我不知道她該往哪去。我毫無辦法。
Minerva is only a little bit older tha already she has two kids and a husband who left. Her mother raised her kids alone and it looks like her daughters will go that way too. Minerva cries because her luck is unlucky. Every night and every day. And prays. But when the kids are asleep after she''s fed them their pancake dinner, she writes poems on little pieces of paper that she folds over and over and holds in her hands a long time, little pieces of paper that smell like a dime.
She lets me read her poems. I let her read mine. She is always sad like a house on fire——always something wrong. She has many troubles, but the big one is her husband who left and keeps leaving.
One day she is through as him know enough is enough. Out the door he goes. Clothes, records, shoes. Out the window and the door locked. But that night he es bad sends a big rock through the window. Then he is sorry and she opens the dain. Same story.
week she es over blad blue and asks what she do? Minerva. I don''t know which way she''ll go. There is nothing I do.