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Good news always enlivens the appetite and reinforces the prospects of a desired outcome.

Such prospects, however, would never be realized as the double ring of our telephone once again echoed down the hallway and into the kitchen. I remember seeing my father and grandmother exchange glances of uncertainty as, once again, and without any prompting, I ran for the phone. The same voice and instruction filled my ear. Again, I left the phone and ran to get my father. This time, he had already begun walking down the hallway before I reached the kitchen.

I didn't hear my father place the receiver back on the yoke, and I don't recall the usual creaking of the floorboards in the hallway as he walked back toward the kitchen. What I do remember is the shattered expression on his face as he spoke to my grandmother. "She's dead," he told her in a strained voice. "The doctor said Ernestine's dead."

That's the point where my memory returns only intermittent flashes of confusion. I have tried so hard to remember the sequence of events, but I've been able to retrieve only a few disconnected thoughts. I remember crying outside on the porch as my older sister tried to comfort me with talk of heaven. All of a sudden, I'm back in the living room, bouncing a rubber ball on the wall over the couch. I'm sure that wouldn't have been allowed under normal circumstances, but all my grandmother could do was to sit and stare. I don't remember what my father was doing.

We buried my mother two days later. I have no memory of the funeral, except for the minister coming by to shake our hands at the conclusion of the service. Everyone says we had record-breaking heat that day, but somehow it didn't register on me. All I could think about was the expression on my mother's face as she reached to embrace me. Why didn't I hug and kiss her that day? Why did I turn and run?

Probably because of the grief, I don't remember much about the next few years. My memories resume with the start of elementary school. My first grade teacher had lived right across the street from my grandmother, so she knew my story. She never mentioned anything about my situation until, one day, when she had told us to make a card for our mothers, she noticed that I was just sitting at my desk, unsure of what to do.

"What's the matter, John?" she asked, while squatting next to my desk. I had to swallow hard as I told her that I didn't have a mother. I looked away so she wouldn't see the tears I was trying to restrain. She

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