High Summer

Just as I pull into the driveway, a small, fluffy, gray and white blur races across the driveway and disappears through the latticework and under the house. His mother follows, giving me a resentful glare and a warning snarl as she passes. My house, I remind her, Don't push your luck. From out of nowhere, three more fluffballs - one all gray, one all black, and a different gray and white come scurrying and skittering - they all slip soundlessly through the latticework and disappear. It would seem I am involuntarily harboring the entire family and for just a second, being far too tender hearted for my own good, I actually consider feeding them, then in an unexpected and rare flash of common sense, I realize what a disaster that would be. I harden my heart - I did not ask for and do not welcome these precious trespassers - if I knew who owned the mother cat, I would trap her and the whole litter and deposit them on the offending owner's doorstep. There is no punishment too severe for people who abandon animals, no retribution too harsh. Shoot'em first and ask questions later is always the best course.

It's almost high summer and I'm consoled by the fact that by the time the weather turns ugly again, they will be grown, feral, and self sufficient and I won't have to worry about them. It doesn't help much now though and I fret and worry to no end that they won't survive their kittenhood, even though experience tells me that this time next year, half of them will be tending to their own new litters and the entire process will start over. It's a dismal thought but I suppose there's always the hope that they will choose someone else's house next time.

A few days later as I turn in, I see mother cat and all four kittens lazing in the late afternoon sunshine, tumbling about and playfully chasing their tails. All five run when I approach, the mother cat seeing that all the little ones are safely under the house and out of harm's way before she casually follows. Again, she gives me a resentful glare and again I remind her, My house, and when she hisses, My driveway too, I tell her mildly, Watch your language.

I fear this little family of intruders may be with me for some time. Half of me wants to evict them, the other half wants to set out food and water - no matter what I do, I won't be happy with myself.

Widow Walk

This thought arrived - without fanfare and originating from nowhere in particular except my somewhat scattered mind - both my grandmothers spent more than half their lives widows. Of my paternal grandfather, I remember nothing as he had died before I was was born and no one spoke about him but of my mother's mother, it may have actually been the better part of her life.

My grandfather was a hard man, successful, admired, widely respected but wholly unlikeable. His death left my grandmother a widow but a prominent and comfortably well off one. If she missed his company, she never said so and after the funeral she resumed her life with ease and equilibrium, making no outward changes but seeming to breathe more freely and smile more often. She had her home, her trusty navy blue Lincoln ( still replaced every two or three years with a more current model whether it was needed or not ), her lodgework and her friends, her grandchildren. She crocheted and knitted, cooked holiday dinners, never missed Lawrence Welk, entertained and went to church irregularly, slept in the same twin bed and took charge of her life with a cheerful if demanding spirit. She became less hard to please and more forgiving, maintaining her lifestyle and opening new doors with a fearless kind of curiosity. Never one to publicly put her emotions on display, if she mourned, she kept it to herself. If she rejoiced, she did it privately.

Though I dared tell no one, I was relieved at his passing - being a loud and large man, he had always secretly frightened me a little. I was glad to be able to visit Nana without feeling in the way, as if I might break something valuable or get on his nerves. In addition, he and my mother were constantly at odds, sniping at each other like stray dogs fighting about a leftover bone. I never thought they liked each other very much, possibly there was too much of each in the other - she felt unloved and rejected, he was simply not interested in parenting. Nana always seemed caught in the middle of these usually petty quarrels and she had no good way out - backing or defending either side was a losing proposition, doing nothing brought them both down on her.

She put on her widowhood and wore it well. I think it suited her.

Workplace Weary

The temptation to call in sick is powerful - tempered by my fear of not being able to pull it off and the unraveling thought of being out of work. It has, I freely admit, nothing to do with honesty, not anymore.

I'm weary of crossroads, those points where I am called upon to make a life changing decision and live with the consequences. I'm worn out with the toxicity of the workplace, the accusations and threats, the long suffering sighs and displays of temper and especially the How many times do I have to tell you tone of voice that has become part of the daily routine. I am workplace weary but trapped in a harsh and unforgiving economic world - I don't know how to repair jet engines, mix drinks, or oversee off shore drilling and I don't imagine I could make a success of selling used cars or managing a fried chicken outlet. Odd, what abilities and expertise are called for the in the current market, odd what employers seem to value nowadays. I spend an hour or so each day in search of new employment but it's a discouraging process, repetitive, frustrating and fruitless.

When I examine my feelings in the most honest light possible, I realize that this is a reaction to the past, to a time when I was powerless against the forces of raised voices and parenthood, when I first understood that we don't always find fairness in the world. This is ground I have covered and recovered through writing, through therapy, through 12 step programs and dark nights of self forgiveness and remembering that I am an adult now and no longer a child with a target painted on her back. And yet, I do not suffer this well - mornings find me searching for a reason to call in sick or inadequate or simply not up to it. Eight hours a day on eggshells has me edgy and apprehensive.

The child in me still flinches at a raised voice, at being a disappointment, at being held hostage to a job in a hostile environment, of failing to do my best. It's not rational, I know, but it is real.

The Medicality Man

The new summer doctor - young, clean shaven, hopeful and a mite bewildered by his first potential patient, frowned at me. He swallowed a fish hook, I managed to say through my tears, You have to help him! The doctor took a step back. But he's a dog, he said reasonably, I don't know that I can ...... Beside me, John Sullivan straightened up, cleared his throat loudly, and met the young man's uncertain eyes. Aye, he's a dog, but he's a good dog, Long John said firmly, Are you a good doctor?

There was a moment of hesitation before the young man nodded and extended his flannel shirted arms, That I am, he replied with confidence, Give him here. And he carried my beloved Fritze, coughing and choking and sounding near death, into the exam room. I began to cry even harder and Long John picked me up and set me on his knee, stroking my hair and quietly reassuring me as best he could. Had me a dog that swallowed a hook once, he told me, All come out fine in the end and this will too.

John's eyes were too kind not to trust, his voice too sincere not to believe and in less than a hour the doctor emerged with Fritze trotting proudly at his ankles, neither any the worse for wear. When John pulled a ragged five dollar bill from his old wallet and the doctor declined, a new island legend was born. The next day, Nana delivered a stern lecture to me and a warm blueberry pie to each man - according to island standards, each had done well. Not long after, when Doc spent an entire night repairing one of the Ryan boys' ear - one of the Sullivan brothers had liked to slice it clean off during a friendly disagreement - it was decided that the doctor, despite his original reluctance, had passed his initiation test with flying colors. We had us, as Aunt Vi proudly proclaimed, a new medicality man.

That summer, Doc treated people and animals alike - broken limbs were set, cuts were stitched, breech babies were delivered from human and non human mothers, the occasional gunshot wound was treated. Rowena came and taught him not to dismiss all salves, potions and poultices and after some small resistance, he welcomed her help. He came to us a proper, starched, and book learned doctor and left a wiser, kinder hearted, true medicality man.

.

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Johnny T

Thanks to the miracle of a social network, I've discovered that a boy I might have married is now a great grandfather. This unsettling news gave me great pause and briefly sent me into a mild state of shock. The Ugly Stepsisters, Time and Reality, have once again spoken.

The boy I remember was tall and thin with dark red hair and a highly seductive smile. The man he has become is tall and thin with white hair and a highly seductive smile. Upon reflection, this state of change/no change pleases me - there are constants in the world after all and while we all grow into age and wisdom at our own pace, he has done so with ease and elegance. I am, I realize, more than just pleased, I am reassured.

Age can be a ripening process if we allow it, starting slowly and after a certain point, speeding up at a reckless and alarming pace. Whether we resist or give in gracefully makes little difference in the long run - doors open and close all along the way, we step through or turn away - sometimes we're right and sometimes we're wrong but we're always in motion, always headed toward some cloudy and mysterious point where we imagine the rainbow ends. We may arrive alone, in pairs, or even with great grandchildren in tow but we get there all the same and we all get the same chance to look back and see where we've come from, where we've stopped to rest, where we changed direction.
The young, redheaded and handsome boy I used to know has chosen and traveled well - I can see it in his eyes and familiar smile.

I suspect that no one calls him "Johnny" anymore, but when I open the velvet lined box I keep under my pillow, the one that holds the truly special memories, it's how I always remember him.

A History Lesson

Even when you learn from history, it can still repeat itself.

Before I came to understand that my mother was pathologically unpleasable, I invested no small amount of time and energy trying to win her approval but nothing was ever quite good enough, right enough, quick enough, adequate enough. A lifetime later, I find myself in an eerily similar situation - the harder I try, the less I succeed. This time I have company in my misery, a small comfort to be be sure, but a comfort nonetheless - at least I know I'm not trapped alone, not imagining how bad things really have become. It's not paranoid if they're really after you, as people like to say.

The scars of verbal abuse may not be as visible as bruises but they fade slower and take far longer to heal. People who use this technique tend to be bullies, manipulators and masters of sarcasm with a nasty bite and a flair for hitting their targets. They gnaw at the self esteem of others, gradually corroding away sense of self and dignity like dental decay. They win because they cheat, being far ahead at the start and reinforcing their lead with not so lightly veiled threats and constant heavy handed reminders of who's in charge. Their power is that of the paycheck, reasonable reprimands are too kind when a temper tantrum will do, a shouted and acid tongued answer to a question is easier than an actual response. Employees are ground down gradually, used up and discarded, slyly replaced, emotionally beaten into submission or simply driven off. It's a nasty business all around and it breeds negativity and hostility, anger and defiance. When power becomes a weapon, the user becomes an enemy.

In my imagination and dreams, I yearn to make a statement, a dramatic exit that will leave him high and dry but stranded. It's not impossible that one walkout would pave the way for others, that a fully staffed office might not be suddenly and shockingly unstaffed. It's unlikely, but it's possible - you never really know what your breaking point is until you reach it.

Carrie May and The Teacup Monkey

Carrie May's folks lived up island at the end of a narrow dirt road that wound for a half mile or so through thick trees and ended up just above the cove. The little frame house was always neat as a pin and kept brightly painted, its windows shone in the morning sun and wildflowers grew on either side of the path. Carrie's daddy, an itinerant carpenter, traveled all the over provinces for work, and always returned with pockets full of cash and a box of presents for Carrie and her mother - a brass birdcage, a music box, an entire set of Encyclopedia Britannica - and one June evening, a miniature monkey with scaly, brown and black fur and huge eyes. It was this last gift that made her mother anxious but won Carrie's heart for all time. No one on the island had ever set eyes on a genuine monkey, never mind kept one as a pet, and for a time the little creature with the soulful eyes was a major curiosity. Carrie named him Teacup, just like the monkeys in the ads at the back of comic books, and her daddy built an enormous enclosure and filled it with driftwood and ropes and a several small swings. Teacup thrived on sun and salt air, a diet of dried fish, fruit, nuts and porkchop bones, and come winter, he was moved inside to a smaller cage to accommodate what Carrie's daddy called his tropical soul. He took sick not long after and Rowena had to be called. Cain't say I know much about monkeys, she told Carrie with a heavy heart, but I'll do my best. I'll study on it.

And study she did, discovering more about monkeys than she had ever wanted to know but nothing definitive. She recommended keeping him warm and dry, increasing his fluid intake - by force if need be - a quarter tablet of baby aspirin once a day and powdered milk. Carrie added a nightly prayer and little by slow, Teacup improved Rowena chalked it up to serendipity and old fashioned common sense while Carrie was sure it was intervention from a higher source, some merciful god of monkeys who had looked down and decided to spare the small life. By late spring when the weather finally turned warmer, Teacup was returned to his outside enclosure, happy, healthy and playful as ever. He was to live another thirty years and by the time he died - well fed and chattering quietly to himself as if making his peace with the god of monkeys before curling up in a corner of his summer cage and closing his eyes for the final time - Carrie's children had children.

It was a fine day for a funeral, my friend Ruthie wrote me, Jimmy let all the children out of their lessons so they could be there, Carrie even persuaded James to come and read a prayer and we sang "Let The Circle Be Unbroken" then buried him - the monkey, not James - beneath the wildflower patch by the back door. When the children asked if monkeys go to heaven, James told them that God accepts all good souls. Nice touch, don't you think?

I did think so and still do.

Men of Honor

Aunt Suse lived four doors down in the house she'd been born and raised in. A bulky woman with misshapen teeth and wide hips, she'd birthed four strapping boys by the time she was twenty and declared she was done with having any more. Uncle Ned took this news in stride, philosophically shrugging his bent shoulders and thin back - his duty to his woman done and his family complete, he left for parts unknown, returning a few times each year and sending money and gifts on the first of every month. Regular as clockwork, Aunt Suse liked to tell people, Always could count on ol' Ned to keep his word. Too many men underfoot as it is. She told the boys their daddy worked off shore to keep them in shoes - they accepted this and asked no questions - absent parents were not uncommon on the small island, and for all Suse knew, Ol' Ned could actually have been on some oil rig off the Alaskan coast. She didn't ask, he never told. Don't much matter, she would say cheerfully, He ain't here but he's doin' right by us and that's a sight more'n I can say for some. Got me no cause to complain.

The boys were in their teens - a rough and tumble pack, some said, Hard drinkin', hard livin' but honest and hard workin' - when Suse met Snooky, a recently widowed seiner from St. John, a big man with blue eyes and a face that looked like a road map to a troubled past, lonely and still adjusting to the loss of his pretty young wife. The attraction was immediate and powerful ( the less kind natured of the village women were inclined to add and damned mysterious ) and the boys were wary. While it was true that Suse and Ol' Ned had never been formally wed, all four sons respected the common law marriage and didn't take kindly to the idea of a stranger in their midst. Suse and Snooky conducted themselves discreetly by island standards and for a good while the money and first of the month gifts kept coming - but talk travels - it reached the mainland and kept on going until Ol' Ned heard rumors that the mother of his children had taken up with a new man. Astonished by this turn of events, he made an unscheduled and unannounced trip home, arriving on a Saturday afternoon and going straight to the house where Suse and Snooky were sitting innocently enough on the front porch, playing gin rummy while Spike Jones blared from the old turntable.

Neighbors braced themselves and Sparrow, who lived next door, put aside his wood carving and reached for his scattergun in the event that it became necessary to intervene - but being men of honor, Snooky and Ned shook hands, shared a Molson's, and then agreed to a shoot off for Suse's hand. It was to be held the following day in Uncle Willie's front pasture and the Sparrow would judge the winner. Never did hear of such foolishness, Suse declared with a pleased grin and laid down a winning hand.

Dawn came and a crowd gathered. Aluminum cans had been arranged on fence posts, distances measured out, both men were clean shaven and Sunday dressed. Suse and the boys took their places on the sidelines, anxious and excited for the outcome. At precisely seven o'clock the competition began - one man, one shot - in ever increasing distances away from the targets, until one of them missed. After a half hour's shooting, it was clear that they were exquisitely evenly matched and the crowd grew restless. Alternatives were discussed - plates could be thrown into the air, but no one was willing to provide the dinnerware. Coins could be tossed but they would likely need to be
half dollars and no one felt that generous with their pocket change. It was Uncle Willie, bored and already behind on his Sunday chores who finally suggested -only half seriously - pistols at twenty paces. Whoa, there, John Sullivan protested, Ain't lookin' to get nobody killed here. Uncle Willie shrugged, Don't reckon blanks would do much harm, he said, And it could always be fifty paces. Let the woman decide.

And that was how the duel of Ol' Ned and Snooky the Seiner came about. The two men stood back to back then each took fifty paces. They turned and fired - and with the crowd holding its collective breath, both anticlimactically missed by a mile - and then began laughing, dropping their guns into the high grass and falling to the ground, weak in the knees and relieved to be unharmed. Aunt Suse ordered them to shake hands and then hugged them both before suggesting they go to breakfast and work things out, Like civilized folk do, she said with a proud smile. But men of honor who have been willing to face each other with drawn pistols don't downstep that easily - Snooky packed his things and told her goodbye that very day while Ol' Ned caught the last night ferry back to the land of parts unknown. Neither ever returned and a tearful Aunt Suse gave Uncle Willie twenty dollars for the pair of pistols and mounted them over her bedroom door.

I need to remember this, she told John Sullivan, 'cause if another man shows up, I'll be wantin' to shoot him myself.

Tell Your Story Before You Go

Tell your story.

You can write it with prose or poetry, novels or nonfiction. You can sing it, dance it, paint it, even photograph it or act it out on stage, but tell it before you go. Your narrative is unique, a one of a kind life - even if you think it's ordinary and anonymous, maybe even dull - it's your's alone and someone is listening, holding their breath, waiting to see how it ends.

The man in the wheelchair, unevenly propped up with pillows to maintain the balance his left side could no longer provide, stabilized with straps and slings, in need of a shave and barely a shadow of what he had once been, looked at me with resigned desperation. The stroke that had so damaged his thin body six months prior was still doing its evil work - after the therapy and the rehabilitation, he'd been sent home only to fall and shatter his good arm - it had become clear that he needed full time supervision and long term care. His wife, hysterical with anger, at the end of her emotional and mental rope and not well to begin with, unable to cope with one more day and unwilling to hire home health care, turned to a nursing home, an easy and out of sight, out of mind solution. The man in the wheelchair, once active and vibrant, funny and hardworking, had become a burden of immense proportion and he was given no say in the matter. His independence gone, his pride destroyed and his body turned traitor, he had only his mind left and even that was too depressed to function. The stroke had crippled him but it was the aftermath that crushed his spirit and as I watched him stare at the walls with glazed over eyes and an emptied out soul, I began to understand his wish that he'd died. This quiet, understated, agile minded man who had yet to see his sixtieth birthday had been abandoned to the care of strangers in order to keep him protected, safe, clean, fed and medicated. His hopes for recovery, once so optimistic and bright, were gone and his intellect was grayed out from disuse and neglect. Feeling guilty about being older and still intact, hating my own inability to help or comfort or promise better days ahead, I felt close to tears, anxious to escape this dreadful place, bitterly angry. Forcing down this despair, I reached for the crossword puzzle I had brought with me and began reading him clues. Engage him, the doctor had told me, provoke him and stir up his curiosity. Make him think and talk and use his mind.

Tell your story, I remembered an English professor telling us in a college creative writing course. Keep a journal and record everything. Write it down and pass it on, it's something you'll be glad to have one day.

You never know where the road will take you and you may never pass this way again, so tell your story. Tell me your story before you go.

A House Divided

When I was a child, my brother developed a habit of stealing and then planting evidence. My mother would come up missing a pair of earrings or more often cash, and it would be found in my room. No amount of protesting made the slightest difference. My daddy would arbitrate and once restitution had been made or punishment inflicted, he liked to say that it didn't matter anymore. Every instance of false accusation became a brick in my foundation.

I watched the home inspector crawling in the dirt under the house, ducking and weaving his way through insulation and debris and pipes, and thought that for all the world, I would not want his job. I also began thinking about the foundations that things - and people - are built on and that for as long as I can remember, my foundation has been built on anger.

It's a deceptive emotion, often hiding behind a hypocritical smile and simmering just below the surface. It expresses itself in frustration at petty annoyances and sees a conspiracy in the non workings of things - a dripping faucet, an obstinate light socket, a faulty front door lock, my own carelessness. My temper explodes when I least expect it and wreaks havoc on the offending item, be it a hair dryer that suddenly doesn't work or a drawer that refuses to close properly. I don't seem able to calmly appraise and deal with these insignificant molehills, preferring to shriek every curse I can summon and then annihilate them. I refuse to face the fact that the flaw is in me - that these overreactions to what I see as defiance in inanimate objects is a reflection of my own impatience, my own failure to work properly. Rage can be immediately accessed and retribution doled out - hell hath no fury like a tired, rapidly aging, and suspicious old woman faced with five crying cats and no way to open a can of Nine Lives. In my right mind, I know that this is misdirected fury but in the heat of the moment when I can't see or think straight, I yearn for a sledge hammer or better yet, a bulky and heavy firearm - anything with the potential for mass destruction would do. Despair needs an outlet and the louder and bloodier, the better. It's not enough that I win these silly battles - I need to win and scorch the earth when I'm done. I take no prisoners.

Of course, this sort of rage with people would soon have me incarcerated so I'm forced to temper my anger with pleasantries, put on a happy face, remember my manners. It's an exhausting process and often leaves me feeling divided if not outright schizophrenic - I am, at heart, a fraud and in fear of being recognized and having my true feelings exposed. My inner child is still in the midst of a lifelong temper tantrum, still wanting to throw things and scream and pitch a fit. This would be indelicate in the real world.

The inspector brings his leveling instrument to the kitchen, lays down on the floor and props it up on one end with pocket change until it reads perfectly straight. Old houses are like people, he tells me cheerfully, we settle some with age. I imagine this is supposed to reassure me, a clever but overused metaphor he undoubtably pulls out at every home inspection. Nothing to worry about, he adds with a friendly smile. This is good news and I'm caught off guard by the sudden notion that there's nothing I would like better than to box his ears. Instead, I smile as he expects me to, as required. He writes a brief report on the kitchen table, tolerantly putting up with the young black and white cat twining about his ankles, then takes his leave with an encouraging wave. I feel like I can breathe again, as if my two selves have come together, if only for a little while.

There are times when all this anger is so distant that I forget about it. There are times when I think it may suffocate me. But most of the time, it sits and waits, patient and sure of itself, napping until the time is right for a perfect strike, when I imagine I have been harmed or slighted or, worst of all, falsely accused. It leaps to my defense as fiercely as a trapped animal and although it fights back with every weapon it can find, it fights covertly and only in the chaos of my mind.

Anger always matters - it holds the bricks together, withstanding any siege of reason or forgiveness. It builds a poor house but makes an unassailable foundation.

Off Broadway

Families are like off Broadway plays - each with a cast of characters, clever dialogue, and plot lines. They can run for years or close overnight but mostly they carry on, in quiet obscurity or plain, old ordinariness. Everybody has a role to play.

In my family, the first child was the precedent setter - my part was to break ground and challenge authority, to see how far rules could be bent.

My youngest brother's role was to take advantage of anything I accomplished.

The middle child was a walk on with no lines, sullen, resentful and slightly savage, a nasty little mystery.

My youngest brother and I, although without his thin frame and blue eyes, took after my daddy. I was blessed with his love of books and music and his quiet nature. My brother inherited his ability to arbitrate and compromise, to be the family peacemaker and see all sides of a particular question. He and I got along more often than not in the early days - we were not close, but we were rarely at odds. He was more of a follower - on the shy side, sharply dry witted, mostly an obedient child. He liked for the river to flow smoothly.

The middle child took after my mother, emotionally as well as physically. He was short, heavy set, with a perpetual sneer and an affinity for trouble. There was a cruel streak in him and an inability to make eye contact with others. He had a temper, liked to use his fists, and from the age of just ten was drawn to violence. He lied with the best of them, ran with a rough crowd, threatened anyone who got in his way and usually followed through. No one understood him in the slightest.

Blood is thicker than water, so the saying goes, but in my family, it felt as if happenstance ruled, as if we were strangers under the same roof, unrelated, unattached and unfamiliar. We each played our parts and then left the theater alone and in the dark. There were no standing ovations, no encores, no performance awards.

I know that I will never reconcile with my family and I regret it no more than I would offending a disagreeable stranger. I still suspect that our existence was an unhappy accident.

Fade Away

Her hair resembled a bird's nest - hastily put together and held in place by snarls and mats. A pink hat with a veil, secured by a number of black hair clips hung to one side, making her look off kilter and a bit crazed but mostly it was her eyes - they darted here and there in jerky little movements, suggesting fear and possibly paranoia. They're watching, she whispered to me a little breathlessly. It's okay, I told her, You're safe here. She gave me a suspicious look then reluctantly handed me an expired Sears card with mangled edges and the number scratched out. I think this one might be old, I told her softly, Do you have another? She reluctantly produced a current Visa card and watched intently as I ran it through the machine, then wiped it thoroughly and replaced it in her purse. Fingerprints, she muttered, and DNA. You have to be careful, you know. Her daughter in law appeared at her elbow, a scowling and impatient look on her face and a grim faced child tugging at her skirt. Finally! she snapped, Is she done? I nodded and the old woman, looking as if she might cry, followed the younger one out, her shuffling steps scratching coarsely on the carpet, her eyes downcast. So sad, the nurse remarked as she handed me a chart, She's fading away. I don't they take very good care of her.

The old among us, often the ones in the need of the most care and due the most kindness, too often become unwanted burdens. I think we forget what they have done for us, how much they sacrificed of their own lives to provide for our's. Especially if they are docile and uncomplaining, it's far too easy to neglect and overlook them, treat them just a little roughly, demean them. They get in the way with their helplessness, they slow us down, they no longer contribute. It's less complicated to assign them a nurse or abandon them to a nursing home - all we need do for a clear conscience is pay the bills and drag our children to visit every few months - out of sight, out of mind.

On another day, an adult child arrives with her aging and barely competent mother - she has taken time off from work, rearranged her schedule, made room for the wheel chair, as she does for each doctor visit. She settles the old woman in her chair, covers her thin legs with a quilt, signs her in and then takes a seat beside her. Together they look at magazines and talk softly, the daughter smiling and patiently nodding, even when the questions make no sense. The mother may or may not know where she is or why, may or may not remember what year it is, may or may not recognize any of us, but she trusts her daughter/caregiver and is not afraid.

Being outside these family circles, I can't know what has brought each child and parent to this particular place. Nonetheless, it's a rare day that I'm not grateful to have been spared this cross to bear.