Fill in the Blanks

There was an exercise in aftercare about emotions. I feel ___________ when you ________ because _________.
It called for honesty and I was never very good at it. Just like a lie, truth spins its own spiderweb and it's a chore to get free.

We sat in a small circle, friends and families of the addicts in the next room doing the same thing. There were horror stories - a mother who watched as her child slept in an abandoned car in freezing weather rather than give up cocaine, a wife who's husband sat naked, screaming and throwing beer bottles until the police came, a sister who found her twin dead of an overdose. It was called "tough love" or "setting limits" but what it meant was watching someone you loved kill themselves and acknowledging your part. No addict really dies by his own hand alone - he must have a safety net, someone to protect him, cover up for him, enable him to keep drinking or taking drugs without consequences or pain. It can be an entire network between him and recovery but it really only takes one.

We do it for a variety of reasons - shame, fear of discovery, terror at the thought of being alone, martyrdom, a need to be better than who we love, a belief that love will win out over the addiction - sometimes we are just so beaten down that it's easier, sometimes we can't or won't confront our own contribution. Sometimes we want to save someone so badly that we don't see the harm we do to them and ourselves. Sitting in that small circle meant looking inward at our own motives, at out own behavior. It was painful and it left emotional wreckage. None of us wanted to admit to being wrong or at fault even in the smallest way. We wanted to be the heros, the saviors,
the long suffering, willing to sacrifice, abused and mistreated victims. We wanted to stand proud even if only in our own minds of what we had tolerated. We wanted to be the good guys.

Coming to terms with the truth trapped us as substance abuse had trapped the ones we loved. The way out was a small circle of trust where we could fill in the blanks honestly.

Snow on the Woodpile

"My own life is all I can hope to control.
Let my life bring peace to my soul." - Tom Paxton

A cold rain had been coming down all morning. The tree branches were hanging low with leftover ice and the ground was a mix of melting snow and dead grass. The sky was overcast and dim with no promise of sun or warmth and we were getting ready to drive upstate for a folk concert and a night in an old bed and breakfast inn. Music and a winter's drive along the Maine coast were calling. I could almost see the deserted beaches at low tide, could almost smell the ocean. We would eat along the way and stop at Portland Head so I could photograph the lighthouse. Winter brings a sense of beauty and desolation to the New England coastline like no other season.

When the 'phone rang, I answered without thinking, my mind lost in images of waves crashing onto rocks, ships fighting the seas, deserted breakwaters silouhetted against dark skies. A voice, familiar but one I hadn't heard in years, said my name and then Your mother died last night. When I said nothing, he went on, The funeral is Tuesday. Will you come?

The rain had stopped and I thought the sky was lightening just a little, as if a rainbow might appear.
In front of the wood stove, the dogs stirred and I could hear my husband whistling from outside. I stood with the 'phone to my ear and a dishtowel in my hand, looking around the cabin as if it were a new and strange landscape but filled with the old and ordinary things that make up a life. I could see the woodpile from the window, still piled high and tinged with snow. There were squirrels at the feeder on the deck and dogs barking somewhere in the distance. Spring was still a long way off but it would come, a new season with new promises and new life, a season of second chances and peace of mind, of resolution and hope.

Will you come? he asked again. No, I said finally, I'm sorry, but no, and I hung up the 'phone. It was over and I was up to my elbows in relief and gratitude. My husband came in, arms filled with wood for the stove and said Who was that on the 'phone? I hung up the dishtowel and reached for my jacket and gloves, checked the lock on the back door and said Wrong number.

Mrs. O'Brian's Piano Lessons

I hated piano lessons.

Every Tuesday from 3 til 4:30, I trudged to Mrs. O'Brian's and dutifully played what I had invariably not practiced.
She would give an immense sigh and clasping her hands in her lap in resignation and look at me with great sorrow. You didn't practice. I would hang my head. And why not? she would ask but I had no answer.

Mrs. O'Brian's grand piano took up most of her living room and faced double doors which led to a sunporch, which led to her vast garden. She was a retired schoolteacher, a substantial woman who had been widowed early and never remarried. She taught to supplement her pension and believed only in the classic composers. Once every year, her students put on a recital in one of the school's music rooms and she was determined that we would not embarrass her or the composers she so revered. Sitting there in her sunlit living room that smelled of sachet and flowers, I didn't know how to tell her - that our ancient old upright, painted for God knew what reason a horrific shade of aqua, sat in a basement made of cinder block walls. That it was musty, moldy, nasty smelling and always damply cold and that ten minutes or so into my practicing, the cellar door would be flung open and I would hear my mother's coarse, whiskey coated voice in some version of for Christ's sake, play it right or stop that infernal racket! I loved Brahms and Chopin and especially Mozart, but I would never play any of them the way Mrs. O'Brian
hoped and I prayed not to be included in the recital. I didn't know how to tell my teacher this, better for her to think that I just didn't practice. I suspected that the truth would get me into far worse trouble than my piano teacher's hurt feelings and exasperation.

So we went back to basics, back to scales and exercises and my lessons were extended to include practice sessions. I would play, Mrs.O'Brian would go about her business. I would finish, and Mrs. O'Brian would call out
Again! This time a little faster, please, and watch your left hand, it's drifting. Afternoons passed quickly as she taught and sometimes she would sit beside me as I played the same thing again and again and again. Don't look at the keyboard, she would say firmly, look at the garden. And sit up straight. Some of my fear of the recital eased but as the day drew closer, it was replaced with other, more realistic fears - unlikely as it was, the idea that my mother might actually attend made me physically ill.

In the end though, only my daddy was in the audience and I played passably well. Over ice cream sundaes afterwards, when I said I no longer wanted to take the lessons, he gave me a long, serious look before he said ok.
He didn't ask why and I didn't know how to tell him what he already knew.

The Prodigal Sheep

The fog had come in with what seemed to be supernatural speed. One minute the lights of Westport were clearly visible, they made shimmering paths of light out over the water from one end of the small island to the other. And then they were gone, engulfed in a dense, saturated fogbank. It closed around in around us like a heavy, wet blanket and when I stretched out my arm, I couldn't see my hand. We better try for home, Johnny said cheerfully,
Reckon it might take some time.

Just finding the car was a task in itself. He took my hand and led me up the rocky beach, one careful step at a time, around the piles of kelp and driftwood, through the now wet sand and the seashell debris. Every few steps he would stop and stand perfectly still, then adjust our direction, according to what I had no idea. There was no sound save for the fog horn's calm, steady call and an occasional screech from a seagull.

We reached the car and climbed in, cold and wet despite the fact that it has been a warm summer night. He toweled my hair off with his shirt, warmed my hands, lit a cigarette and grinned at me. Here we go! And we headed down the old dirt lane that led to the main road at snail speed. Branches swept at the sides of the car on both sides, a tree limb would randomly crack beneath the wheels, but Johnny drove on, miraculously never losing the narrow, overgrown trail. We reached the main road intact and laughing.

Once on paved road, things got surprisingly harder. Inland, the fog was even thicker and wetter and visability
barely extended to the hood of the car. Johnny hung his long, lean frame out the drivers side window and with one hand on the wheel, began driving. I leaned out the passenger window as far as possible and with him watching the center line and me watching the ditch, we began the drive back. And we might have made it except for the sheep.

I never saw them. My hand suddenly made contact with something far more substantial than fog - something that felt like wet cotton with ears. I shrieked and Johnny slammed on the brakes, nearly sending us into the ditch as I pulled my hand in. He got out and felt his way around the car slowly and by the time he got to the passenger side
he was doubled over with laughter. It's sheep! he yelled incomprehensibly, Sheep!

By then there was no hope of my getting home on time and we couldn't just leave the sheep, so one by one, we
stuffed them into the back seat and when we were reasonably sure we had them all, we set off again. It was hours later when we finally reached home and the sheep spent the night in the garage while Johnny slept on the couch.
Next morning as Nana looked on, we loaded them back up and set off to find their owner, a grateful farmer who insisted on giving us breakfast for their safe return. It was, as Nana said later, a novel twist to the Bible story.

Spirits in the Windows

The house that overlooked the ocean had finally changed hands, sold for taxes in the midst of a family dispute. I stood in the gravel driveway that cold spring day and looked at it while ghosts peered back at me through the windows. My parents and grandparents, my brothers, and all the friends and family that had come and stayed for a few weeks each summer over the course of years, some of which before I was born. The house had a long history,a long memory, and many spirits still within. The key in my pocket would open the house but I hesitated, not sure I wanted the spirts and memories to come spilling out.

The playhouse was still intact, the garage and the woodshed still stood. The flagpole needed painting, damaged shingles lay here and there, and there was a broken window pane by the side steps. Grass had overcome and obscured the well but the clothesline still hung and the path to the front road was mostly clear, worn down by the hundreds of fishermen who shortcutted around the curve twice a day. No one had ever minded their small trespassing except the dogs. On either side of the path the grass grew tall and wild and it bent gently with the wind. Mowing season was past and the field had been forgotten or passed over. The sunporch windows needed washing and from the front I could see the entire house suffered from neglect. The hurricane damage had not been repaired and the foundation was uneven, giving the house an off kilter look like a picture hung just slightly
out of alignment.

But from the road, sunlight reflected in the windows and the waving grass looked natural. The tide was coming in behind me and I could hear the ferry making it's crossing, the familiar and steady chug of the engine as it navigated the tide and the currents. The factory whistle gave a shrill shriek, then another. The boats were coming in from the day's fishing - seiners, draggers, even some scallopers from the mainland, all coming home at the end of the day. The ocean was churning and the whitecaps were showing in welcome. I walked back up the path toward the house with the wind at my back and the key I woudn't use still in my pocket. The spirits in the house wished me well and I left them in peace.

The Return of Mugglesworth

She rounds the corner like a runaway freight train, skids to a stop in front of the small brown dog then leaps over her and dives under the bed. There's a brief but vocal confrontation with another cat, then she streaks out - long, lean, low to the ground and moving so fast she's just a blur of tiger stripes and whiskers. Mugglesworth is home.

Somewhere along the road of life I took a wrong turn and became unable to refuse an animal in need. I never intended to be caregiver to seven cats and two dogs - I had a plan that involved quiet nights with music playing and books, being able to turn in my sleep without disturbing a half dozen cats, a pillow to myself, being able to eat in peace and sleep late. Instead, I manage my time around my animals, share my entire life with them, tolerate litter boxes and projectile vomiting, panic at the first sign or injury or illness, and can't imagine living any other way.

A few years ago I was driving home to let the dogs out and as I was about to turn a corner, a small
dog raced in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and turned the steering wheel violently, ending up mid street, inches from a stop sign and with the front half of the car on the sidewalk. The dog was
happily running in circles around the car, barking and seemingly well pleased with himself. He had no collar or tags but was wearing a bow made of red ribbon. Resigned, I put him in the car. He was clean and well cared for, the bow was only slightly dusty, and he didn't resist. I thought he must live nearby and that surely someone would be looking for him so I drove around the neighborhood in hope of finding his home. When that didn't work, I took him back to work with me.

During the course of the afternoon he became the talk of the store. Eventually, a customer recognized him, knew where he lived and called his owner who arrived in tears and shaking with relief. All's well that ends well, we said, happy to see the reunion.

So Muggs is home and all's right with the world. It's Christmas and my small house is filled with the ones I love.

In My Brother's House

The tree was huge for the small room and decorated to the hilt. We sat drinking eggnog laced with brandy as my sister in law put the finishing touches on Christmas dinner. Her small son played among the toys and discarded wrapping paper, trying unsuccessfully to tie a ribbon on the cat. I wondered when my brother had begun to lose his hair and become pudgy, a family man if ever there was one. My other brother sat in another room, close by but not part of the grouping, a perpetual smirk on his face and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He looked like 90 miles of bad road. My daddy was in the rocking chair, head back and eyes closed, the Sunday paper spread across his lap. His face was wearied and worn out, deeply lined with exhaustion and the effort of breathing. My husband, secured by his second six pack of beer, retreated to the kitchen, some alcoholic's instinct alerted to the tension even through the haze. And my mother, wasted and ill, her entire body a relic of the cancer she didn't even know about then, sat across from me, eyes sunken and hands shaking. There was no trace of the evil I knew to be in her, she had become a sad, repulsive, old woman who nobody really loved. When she reached out her hand to me, I instinctively flinched and drew back. There was still venom in her, sleeping perhaps, but easily awakened. I sensed it, smelled it, wanted no part of it. The cancer that was posioning her would not bring forgiveness or even charity. She looked bewildered, a little lost, like someone waking up in a strange room and just for a second not knowing where they were. That look was quickly replaced by one of low heat hostility, a look I recognized and knew well and had had enough of. I looked away.

On the surface, I suppose it was like any other Christmas with any other ordinary family. Dinner was served with all the trimmings and we ate with little conversation but much complimenting. My sister in law and I cleared the table and washed dishes in not an uncomfortable silence while the others regrouped in the living room. My husband and brothers smoking on the tiny front porch, my daddy half asleep in the rocker and my mother in the new reclining chair, hands folded in her lap, an utterly blank look on her face.

I didn't know it then, but that Christmas in my brother's house was the last time I would see any of them. The cancer was diagnosed a week or so later and with the diagnosis came the final family split. I chose to be outside the circle.
We left late in the afternoon, making the drive home in darkness and silence. The man I had married was numbed by alcohol, I had only my demons for company and even they were fading and unnaturally quiet. Perhaps they knew what I didn't even dare hope - that the wind was about to change at last.

Room for Rent

Sometimes a picture reaches out to me and demands that I pay attention. It speaks without words and calls up images too numerous to sort out. When I saw my cousin Linda's shot of this empty bird's nest, emotions and images flooded through my mind - lonliness, abandonment, sadness, outlived usefulness, desolation and stark despair, a cold and dark winter's day at the end of life. At the same time, I saw a home built with love and care, a home that had served it's purpose of bringing new life into the world and then setting it free to find it's own path. A baby bird's first solo flight and the pride it's parents must've felt in knowing that their child was prepared to go it's own way. The nest had served it's purpose and it's occupants had moved on, perhaps to a more upscale neighborhood, perhaps south for the winter, perhaps to a bigger nest in a higher tree. Images of freedom clashed with images of desolation and I found myself thinking, damn, I wish I'd taken that.

Nature will reclaim the nest eventually and take back the bits of branches and grass and odds and ends. Another family may recycle and reuse the materials for another nest and another few baby birds will spread their wings and leave home.
Meanwhile, the empty nest waits patiently, becoming part of the winter landscape while waiting for spring.

The Christmas Village

Every Christmas, my grandmother gave her yardman a handful of cash and an errand. The woods are full of Christmas trees, Joseph, she told him seriously, and we're going to let them stay that way. And Joseph would climb into his rickety old pick up truck and go in search of a suitable Christmas tree lot. He would return and haul the tree inside where Nana and he would set it up in the living room on an ancient wooden stand - Nana didn't hold with the new fangled metal kind - then he retrieved the handmade tree skirt and the Christmas village from the attic, got all the ornaments out and the lights strung, and he and Nana would have a small glass of eggnog. Merry Christmas, Joseph,
she said and raised her glass. Merry Christmas, Missus, he would say in return, drink his eggnog, and leave. He had worked for her for most of his life and this was the only time of year that he was allowed inside the house.

The Christmas village was meticulously set up in front of the fireplace. My grandmother and I got on our hands and knees and laid cotton for snow. We tucked in all the tiny lights and then set up the church, all the little houses,
the picket fences, the trees and the village square complete with gazebo. Miniature people were in doorways and miniature deer grazed off to one side of the woods. There were tiny snowmen in tiny yards and children pulling sleds.
Nana unwrapped every piece slowly and carefully and handed them to me for placement, always with a reminder of how delicate everything was. The village had been passed down from her mother and her mother's mother and she treasured it.

When we were done, she would take my hand and lead me to the entry hall where she flicked a switch and the entire village lit up in a blaze of light, twinkling and casting shadows over the room. The room had been transformed to a wonderland and it was officially Christmas. Nana put on Christmas music and we spent the rest of the night piling presents under the tree by the lights in the village and on the tree. Before she sent me to bed, we sat and drank a small glass of eggnog together while she read me "The Night Before Christmas". There was peace on earth all through the house.

No Minute Like the Last Minute

There's no minute like the last minute.

It's remarkable how calm and under control can go to frantic and spiraling downward in a matter of seconds. A lost email from Saturday is finally found on Tuesday and my peaceful world unravels in a frenzied search for telephone numbers and questions of availability and raised voices. A casting company has scheduled auditions for 9 in the morning and it's 4:25. Though temporary and brief, madness reigns. It is at this moment that the telephone, which has been unusually silent all through the day, begins to ring incessantly and at this moment that the delivery companies choose to arrive with Christmas packages that must be inspected and signed for. It's a simulcast of chaos.

Order is eventually restored, as of course it must be, and the day winds up. We look back and laugh at our own selves and at how we behaved. I think we are fragile beings, far more susceptible to unanticipated events than we want to believe and far more easily panicked than we want to admit. The illusion of being in control is powerful and we all share it to some degree so an unexpected crisis can be beneficial - it can help bring us back to our senses. Like it or not, we all need a reality check every few thousand miles.

One Good Shot Is Enough

I woke up to the sound of my cell phone ringing, a small paw brushing at my hair, and a cold black nose insinuating its way under the quilt. It was Sunday morning and I dug deeper under the covers. The black nose followed and in a few seconds the entire black dog was under with me, all get-up-growls and nudges. I pretended to be asleep but it was too late - the small brown dog slid under and wound her way around my neck and the bed was getting heavier with the weight of multiple cats perching on my hip, my shoulder, and where my feet wanted to be. It was nine against one and I know when I'm beaten.

The morning was slightly overcast, cold but clear - perfect for the family portrait I was to take later in the day. The color of winter in the south is hazy and tinted with just a suggestion of rose. The light sifted through the trees, more dusky than mid-morning but much softer than dawn, like seeing the whole world through a warming filter. It would be a beautiful winter day.

I have never missed snow, not even at Christmas. Picture post cards of Colorado or Vermont don't move me and I have a suspicion that all winter landscapes are made in Hollywood. Alaskan cruises
are for the deranged of mind and spirit, chalets should be forbidden to all but the Swiss who have to live in them, and sleigh rides should be outlawed even for the horses. It's a harsh attitude, I know,
born of too many New England winters, too much time being cold, too much snow glare. My relatives would, it seems, be of sturdier stuff.

So I pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, pack my cameras, and head out to do a family portrait, hoping against hope that even on this perfect day, it will be inside and knowing it will not. The outside light is too good not to use. I will do my best and keep my fingers crossed for one good shot because one will be enough.

Snowbound

The n'oreaster hit as predicted and came straight up the coastline. New England towns from Providence to Bar Harbor were snowed in overnight, airports closed, snow emergencies were declared statewide. The drifts were massive, the highways deadly. Morning came and it was deceptively clear and bright with a brilliant blue sky and no clouds to cover the sun. Icicles had formed and were just beginning to melt while tree branches were bent to the ground with the weight of the snow. Trails of chimney smoke drifted across the sky and the sounds of snowblowers echoed through the trees.

We cleared the doorway and the dogs bounded out joyfully - it was their first major storm on the mountain and they were thrilled. They leaped over or plowed through the drifts, falling down and tunneling under, tails wagging and tongues hanging out, barking at the unfamiliar landscape and each other. The woodpile was buried under a staggering amount of snow and it took most of an hour to reach it and bring in wood for the stove but the cabin was warm and snug when we finished. We made hot chocolate and marshmellows for breakfast and while the dogs curled up by the stove and napped, we debated how to begin shoveling our way out and if we should begin at all.
Another 6 to 8 inches was forecast by the next morning.

Surprisingly enough, we still had power so the day passed quickly. By mid-afternoon it had begin to snow again and the dogs delighted in trying to catch the snowflakes and retrieve snowballs. By dark we were all worn out and retreated again to the warmth of the woodstove. We ate popcorn and tuna fish sandwiches and drank more hot chocolate while the snow fell fast and furious. It had been a good day on the mountain.

The Woodcarver

Uncle Willie had lived alone for as long as I could remember. His house sat across the strawberry field from our's, a clapboard, two story in need of paint and other repairs. He lived only on the first floor in a living room with a small kitchen and an even smaller bedroom. He was old and grizzled with skin like well worn leather and an unkempt beard. He smoked a pipe now and then but mostly would roll his own. He would sit in his old rocking chair in the evenings, flannel shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, smoking and reading the paper while we played at his feet - he taught us dominoes and cribbage and hearts -and when it was time for us to go, he always saw us to the door with an old oil lamp and waited until we were safely across the road. Nana would then flick the backporch light to let him know we were home and he would swing his lamp in acknowledgement then return to his pipe and paper. His lights stayed on all night.

He had been a fisherman all his life, Nana said. And had had a wife and raised a family but they never visited and he never left to see them. Nana would mutter something about bad blood but when pressed to explain, she'd give us a half hearted swat and a Never you mind. On Sundays, she would fix a plate and send us across the road with it. Uncle Willie returned the favor by keeping us supplied with homemade ice cream with real bits of ginger. I've never seen ginger ice cream since.

He kept chickens and a couple of goats and during the day he would tend his vegetable garden or sit on his front steps and mend his old, no longer needed fishing nets. Sometimes he would carve or whittle, turning bits of wood into whistles or tiny figures that we carried as good luck charms. He was a solitary, silent carver but I imagined that his wooden animals made up for it. I had an entire
collection of small animals by one summer's end and they all talked to me non-stop. Uncle Willie would listen to these conversations and smile and rock and smoke but say nothing. Now and then a tourist would see his work and stop by the old house - Willie would always oblige them, accepting their money with an I thank ye and a tip of his cap. To them, I suppose he was just another one of the island's many eccentrics, their version of the old Gloucester fisherman come to life. To him, they were just "from away" with more money than sense.

He was well into his 90's when he died and his funeral was held on a clear and bright, beautiful summer day. His daughters and their families came for that last time and Nana worked round the clock to get his old house ready for them but they simply saw him buried and left. People who forget where they come from, Nana told me at the grave, don't get to go nowhere.

The Courthouse Lawn

The courthouse was lit like a wonderland - lights in the trees and on the lawn, wreaths intertwined with sparklers at every window, lights strung lampost to lampost. They flashed and danced and lit up the square with holiday spirit. It was just past 2am on a Sunday morning and bitterly cold, Christmas was very near and all of downtown was in celebration.

Near a bench off to the side of the brightly shining courthouse, light glinted off a shopping cart piled high with boxes and bottles and assorted possessions. On the bench, I could make out a form huddled under layer upon layer of newspaper and what looked to be ragged blankets and quilts. A striped knitted cap at one end and the heel of a heavy workboot at the other. I heard coughing and saw breath being exhaled on the frozen air before she stirred upright, rearranged her covers and settled back down, pausing only to give me a brief glare in the lamplight.

I packed my camera away and started the car, a nagging need to do something and a loss as to what quarreling in my head. The car slowly warmed up as I dug in my pockets, finally finding a five dollar bill and some change. An old bank envelope was in the glove box and I wrapped the bill and coins in it, and leaving the car running, walked across to the sidewalk and to the bench. She didn't move as I placed it near the rear wheel of the shopping cart and backed away.

Christmas was very near and all of downtown was in celebration except the forgotten ones trying to survive on benches and heating grates, alleys and doorways. It was a very cold night and I hoped they would see morning. When it comes right down to it, maybe all any of us want for Christmas is a little warmth.

Dance With Me

Dance with me, he whispered into my ear and held out a hand.
Thanks, but I don't ....I began automatically and stopped because I was suddenly looking into the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. Without another thought, I got to my feet and accepted the outstretched hand. I'd love to, I heard myself say.

Chemisty is such a mystery. He led me to the dance floor and slid one hand behind my back. There was a comfortable distance between us but no conversation and I prayed he wasn't aware of the butterflies that were dancing with us. I could feel sawdust on the old wooden floor, could smell his aftershave, and was intensely aware of his hand in mine and the slight pressure on my back. He was humming along with the music, an old blues song someone had requested. His breath was warm in my ear and when he pulled me just a little closer the sheer physical proximity was devestating and I began to think that my knees weren't going to keep me upright. Just follow my lead, I heard him say and I could feel the smile in his voice. My voice had suddenly taken leave of me and for no good reason I began to suspect that he could hear my heart beating. The music seemed to be coming from a distance and when it ended and he was gone, I managed to convince myself that I'd dreamed it. I picked up my camera and pointed it at the stage again but found I couldn't hold it steady. Furious with myself for not being able to
get a grip, for being so susceptible, for giving in to chemistry of all things, I took a few deep breaths, reached for my cigarettes and ordered a drink.

Whatever it had been eventually passed. I found steady hands once again and went back to shooting. The music was everywhere and gradually its magic replaced the unreality of the dance but not the memory and not the feelings that had surfaced. At the end of the night, I went home alone and dreamed of dancing on a sawdust floor.

Waltzing Matilda

Her name was Bertha. She was a patient in a nursing home, a victim of dementia, old age, and poverty. She never spoke but she hummed constantly, never anything recognizable or familiar, just a song that played over and over again in her mind. She was, so the staff nurse said, perfectly harmless but she did like to roam the halls at night. She would crawl out of her bed, leave her nightdress behind, and creep into the night lighted corridors. More than one aide had come across her unexpectedly in the small hours and more than one patient had been awakened by the ensuing shrieks. Once out, Bertha was reluctant to return to bed - she refused to be coaxed or bribed and she laughed at threats of restraint or sedation. She would crouch down in a corner and smile and from a distance all you could see was a black shadow with one gold tooth flashing in a mouthful of otherwise perfect teeth. Her dark skin made for nearly perfect camouflage.

The night I came across Bertha for the first time, she jumped out at me from a laundry closet. The medicine tray I was carrying went flying and I screeched while she laughed, gold tooth glittering, eyes bright, proud of herself. It was impossible to be angry with this tiny, naked, black woman dancing around in the linen closet so I retrieved the medications and put them out of harm's way then gathered up a spare nightdress and headed for the closet. Bertha was rocking on her heels and humming and when I held out the nightdress, she obediently slipped it over her head.
I took her hand and she slowly stood up and consented to be led back to her room. As we walked, I listened closely
to her humming, thinking that it wasn't just random but an actual song. When we got to her bed, she crawled in and as I pulled the covers up she smiled at me. I leaned over and whispered Waltzing Matilda? but she just closed her eyes and buried her face in her pillow.

I straightened up, looked around to make sure that all the other beds were occupied, and felt a tug at my sleeve.
Mrs. O'Reilly was awake and gesturing me to come closer with one finger while the other was held against her lips.
She was born in Australia she whispered to me and winked, She don't know her own name but she knows where she come from. Ain't that somethin'?

And it was.