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months after giving birth. In some way, I imagined I remember feeling somehow responsible for our often tense home environment and my mother's frequent departures. My almost daily punishments for bad behavior were probably more connected to unseen stresses that I was much too young to understand. At the same time, my hyperactive exploits may have been fueled by those same hidden, yet powerful, undercurrents. No one in our family could have known that my mother now stood precariously near death even as the lives of her children were just beginning.

In what might have been a final effort to halt her body's rapid deterioration, my mother's doctor scheduled a surgical procedure aimed at removing her gall bladder and appendix. The surgery would also provide the physician an opportunity to conduct an exploration of other potential contributors to her weakening condition. If anyone questioned the wisdom of operating on her a mere seven months after giving birth to twins, the point was never raised. Surgery was scheduled and my parents made preparations to go to the hospital.

I don't remember much of that morning. I'm sure my maternal grandmother prepared breakfast, but I can't even remember her arriving to care for us during my mother's stay in the hospital. What I do remember about that day will probably haunt me forever.

As my father took a small suitcase of night clothes and other necessities to the car, my mother stood in the doorway of our home and called for me. While I heard her clearly from my position behind the living room chair, I did not immediately respond to her call. After a few moments, my father came into the living room and said, "Aren't you going to say goodbye to your mother?"

I couldn't reply. I feel certain that I wanted to, but the words would not come from my lips. My father gently grasped my arm and led me to the other end of the house where my mother was still standing in the doorway. She looked down at me with a smile and repeated the same question that had silenced me only moments before. With a gentle motion she reached for me and anticipated my embrace. I don't know why, but at this point I broke away from my father and ran back down the hallway to once again seek refuge behind the rocking chair. In my safe space, I opened the cigar box and began fumbling with a few of the red and white plastic bricks, alternately snapping them together and then apart as I contemplated plans for construction. I understand now that this was probably my

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