Long Night's Moon

What an awful week I've had. Or time lately. I think I'm on the verge of almost figuring something out, but what it is, I haven't quite discerned.

I tried to delete my Kickstarter. I figured it best to put a bullet in it and not have it suffer, but I learned that Kickstarters cannot be deleted. Funding can be canceled, but that seems a tad bit unfair. It seems most of us would want to see how close we could get to achieving our goal, so I left it alone. Instead, I sent out a message of my attempt. Three people pledged after that. It is heartening to see that people don't want it to fail. But then again, perhaps they simply know it is going to fail and this gives them the opportunity of looking like they do indeed care. Of course, I could just be looking into this way too much.

I think too much.

I almost died a week ago Friday. Some sort of Lidocaine allergy. That sandwiched with the rabid fox attack on Theo and I over the summer has me thinking that someone is trying to send me a message. With my pig headedness, I might need another message.

Theo turned four on the sixth. I no longer have a baby in the house.

We celebrated the Full Moon tonight with vegan Alfredo, champagne, and moon bread. Sam and Theo had apple juice and the girls respectively went to spend the night at friends' houses.

The semester is almost over. I think I'm running on empty.

I feel melancholy and I really wanted to write something profound, but I don't think I can anymore.

Blessed Be!

Kickstarter for Now Look What You've Done

What am I working on? Putting a collection of short stories together. Want to help? Please support this venture by checking out my kickstarter:



Here's a exerpt from one of the stories, "Flood":

I thought of all the alcohol I had consumed the night before. Monica persuaded me to chance spirits by pouting. She was shooting back Grape Crushes and Tequila with lemon and salt. I ticked off a list in my mind the damage drinking would do to my baby. Low birth weight, Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, premature birth. It read like the warning label on a bottle of beer. Monica’s girlfriend still hadn’t returned to Boston.

“Let’s dance.” She handed me a Long Island Ice Tea.

“I don’t know if I can drink this.” I reached out to brush at the glitter dusting her eyebrows. She took my hand and kissed it.

“Drink up, I love this song.”

I tilted the glass to my lips, forgoing the straw. Monica ran her tongue over my knuckles as I felt the cold alcohol slip down my throat. She was pulling me out among the other people while the thick glass clattered against my teeth, ice tea sloshing down the front of my dress. I let the cup fall to the floor, waiting for it to shatter, but it merely rolled into the crowd.

Monica danced behind me, her hands traveling up my legs, pushing the maroon fabric higher up my thighs. She slinked around me, arms dashing in and out of my vision, fingers playing at my lips, hips pushing against mine, legs forcing me to follow. I turned to her and wrapped my arms around her neck. I kissed her, trying to slide my tongue between her lips, but she only pushed me away.

“I want to dance.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I shouted over the music.

“You’re not my type.” Her arms flashed back and forth before my eyes.

“What’s wrong with me?” I yelled again just as the music broke up. My voice sounded shrill

“You’re fat.” She rubbed her hand over my stomach. I felt my flesh ripple beneath her touch.

“I’m pregnant,” I told her.

“So?” Her fingers tapped my five months worth of fetus to the beat of the music, “You’re still fat.”

Monica and I had stumbled through Boston after the lights came on in the nightclub. People poured from Lansdowne Street with us. Some hailed cabs, others stood by the closed sign at the Kenmore T-station, confused. The colors of flesh, neon, and dirt swirled before me. We headed up Boylston Street. Her apartment was there, teetering between Boston and the city of Brookline. She said it made her feel rich to pretend she lived on the other side. I felt my stomach lurching as I climbed the dusty stairs. I scrambled by Monica as she bolted her front door and collapsed onto the small bed. She sat down beside me and rubbed my back. I held my head in my hands, hunched over my knees.

“I’m so sick.”

Monica’s hand traveled up and down my spine, pushing sweaty hair from my skin. “I wish you were the one.”

“I don’t feel good,” I told her.

“You’re not really fat.” she said, “You’re face is really very nice, and your hair...”

My head felt like it was burning and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to lie back in the bed or sink onto the cool floor.

“I always wanted a girlfriend with blond hair,” she said to my back, “Real blond hair, not bleached. I’ve seen that before and it’s not right. You’ve got the coloring for pale hair. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I think I’m just jealous.” She twirled strands of my limp hair around her fingers. The gentle pull on my scalp seemed to irritate my stomach more.

“I wonder if I could pull off hair this light,” she said.

I looked up and caught her reflection in the mirror across from me. Her eyes were closed and she was puckering her lips. Her mouth moved like a fish. I dropped my head back down. For an instant I believed Monica and I shared the same image of her as a blond Aphrodite rising from the ocean. I wanted to say something, but I could only manage a groan. She went silent and still, except for the tugging at my head. I imagined her taking a deep breath, swallowing her disgust, and then I felt heat travel up my spine and the wetness of her mouth on my neck. My stomach rumbled up and through my lips.

Long Time No Write

I'm a bit surprised at how long it has been since I've blogged. I guess things have been really busy since 2009. Well, obviously.
Here are some links to things I've been busy with:

• 
  
  Sam starting school.


• 
  
  Deirdre moving on to middle school


• 
  
  Working at two different colleges teaching one full load and one nearly full course load


• 
  
  Supporting Drew in his business venture: Art House Picture Frames


• 
  
  Dancing


• 
  
  Writing


• 
  
  Housekeeping


• 
  
  Going Vegan


• 
  
  Meeting new people, making new friends

And here's a sample of a project I was working on with Drew, The Love Sutra, a collection of art and flash fiction based on Kama Sutra positiions:

Blow of a Boar

He shook his hair out as he stretched beside her on the dirty mattress. She let him lay his head in her lap and sighed when he cleared his throat.

She ran her fingers through his dark curls as he pontificated about the recent election. He was angry. She didn't know what so many were angry about.

"It's the immigrants." he slapped his hand on her thigh to punctuate his thoughts. "They come here and don't want to work and take money from those of us who are working hard!"

She thought he had said he worked at a gas station. It didn't seem like it could be that difficult to pump gas. Well, maybe when it was cold. She didn't say anything though because she liked the caramel color of his skin and his chestnut eyes flecked with gold. Besides, his penis was larger than average and she had been with enough men to know this did actually matter regardless of what they told themselves.

"I could take them all down in under fifteen minutes." He was drunk now. She rubbed his temples with her thumbs and sang a lullaby that her mother once sang and waited until his eyes closed.

After tripping her finger tips through his lashes, she gently lifted his head from her lap and laid it on a silken pillow.

Within minutes she found her scissors and relieved him of his strength.

Eastern Melodies

An evening of Carnatic Music with Maestro Vittal Ramamurthy and his students.




The journey to the November 14th’s Carnatic concert was a test. Rain pounded us as we ran for the van from the house. I have terrible night vision so the drive was even more harrowing than normal. Water rushed over the windshield as we barreled to our destination.

I missed the turn as I usually do but in the dark I was more concerned about it. I knew there was another way in coming up or if worse came to worse, I could swing by my mother’s street and weave in backwards. But, I made the second turn and while whooping with my daughter, I pulled into a parking space and turned the car off.

We sat for a moment contemplating the show we were about to see. Neither one of us knew what to expect. I had played some Youtube videos of Carnatic music performances so that we would have an idea, but this show proved to be different as Maestro Vittal Ramamurthy would be playing violin accompanied by his students. My daughter plays violin, but Western style and had never heard of the instrument being used for classical Indian music. We were both anticipating a learning experience.

Finally, we reached over our seats for our umbrellas and cracking the door, we ventured into the storm. The night sky was barely visible through dark clouds. Water sparkled when the rain hit the street lamps and for a moment, it felt as though we were entering a realm of magic realism.

As we approached the line of doors, I noticed a sign instructing us to use the other door taped to the middle. Thankfully, a young man opened one and beckoned us in. It did not take long to determine where to go as Ms. Indhra Rajashekar and her group, Eastern Cultural Heritage Organization (ECHO) had done a fantastic job of putting this event together. We were immediately greeted by an array of color and warmth.

Bangles sang out as a young woman moved by us in a whirl of red and green, a faint amber scent descending. As we drew closer to the auditorium we were struck by a myriad of images. Men handed us our tickets and programs, a young girl in a deep red lengha choli pressed her palms together and murmured “Namaste” and offered us to choose from a tray of artfully arranged Starburst candies. A drawing made from colored sand sanctified the space. It was impossible to not be swept up in the bustle of energy and excitement in the air. We headed in and found seats.

I could tell right away that this was not going to be like any of my daughter’s concerts I have attended. A platform had been erected on the stage and covered in white. Four violins and a keyboard were placed strategically in a half moon shape with two different drums on either end. An altar with a statue of Ganesha and offerings resided to my right of the platform.

After the introductions, Maestro Ramamurthy and his students took the stage. I knew only one of the students was near my daughter’s age. Harini Rajashekar was a year older. The other two violinists, Aditi Ramesh and Neha Krishnamachary were both in high school. I was hoping they would prove to be an inspiration to my child, who was leaning forward for a better view. The violinists were joined by Maheetha Bharadwaj on keyboards and Arjun Raghavan on the mridangam and Subhang Srinivasan on ghatam, both South Indian style drums. Each artist sat cross legged on the platform and began to tune their instruments. One of the first things we noticed and commented on was that the musicians propped their violins with their legs instead of holding them at arm’s length while sitting on a hard backed chair.

The silence was pierced by an array of aural color as the first notes slipped from Ramamurthy’s violin and cascaded through the auditorium. As each student began to join him, music swirled around me until I felt a slight tugging at my chest. A longing grew to be a part of something I was separate from and an overwhelming urge to break down and weep washed over me as the music soared.

As the drumming picked up, I felt the desire to dance. I knew I was not the only one. In fact, the floor reverberated as the audience foot tapped to the beat. The man behind me kept rhythm by clapping and sang creating a cocoon that was enveloping.

Throughout the evening, the audience clapped and moved their hands through mudras while the musicians moved us with their polished technique. Most of the music was improvised according to Maestro Vittal Ramamurthy. His students followed his cues seamlessly. The ending music allowed the drummers, Subhang Srinivasan artfully playing the ghatam and Arjun Raghavan mastering the mridangam to have a sort of drum off that was powerful and truly showcased their talent. The finale of the evening was one of Mahatma Gandhi’s favorites. This was only time that Ramamurthy lent his vocals and combined with the gentleman seated behind me, this was by far the most moving moment of the evening. Encased within the envelope of their voices and the engulfing music, I truly felt part of something. I snuck a look at my daughter and she too was experiencing the same ecstasy.

Ms. Indhra Rajashekar took the stage again to thank everyone who had participated in putting the event together as well as presenting the students with plaques and Maestro Vittal Ramamurthy with a token of ECHO’s appreciation. Afterwards we were all invited to join Ms. Rajashekar and the musicians for a reception. We were fortunate to meet both Maestro Vittal Ramamurthy and Indhra Rajashekar. My hope is that ECHO continues to bring traditional and authentic eastern culture to Southern Maine as my daughter and I left not only musically educated, but spiritually and emotionally educated as well.

March Madness!

I think I am as crazy as a march hare or a mad hatter. Or, I don't know. It has been a long time since I posted. Why? Because I am pretty freaking busy these days. I will vent about that later though because I want to talk about our upcoming move.

Yes!! Yes!! We are moving to South Portland right after April vacation.

No, we didn't tell anyone what we were doing. Why? Because we both are the youngest and youngest kids are supposed to be spontaneous and risk taking. And we are neither of those things anymore. Or perhaps never were. It has been ages since I ran away from home, experimented with anything other than diaper brands, or even washed my hair, so who am I fooling? Anyway, we decided we were going to move years ago before we even knew each other but never got around to it. Now, Drew and I are married and have added two more kids to the party and one thing I have noticed about boys is that they need running space.

Moving was not an easy choice for me. I have wanted a house since my youngest daughter was born but had no idea how to get one. See, I am poor. Really poor, as my good friend Kristin Boyd used to say, "We are po, that is so poor, we can't even afford the R."

I do have an MFA and teach at two different colleges. But I am adjunct. That means I teach whatever classes get thrown my way, make a pittance, and have no benefits. I do have a lot of student loans though. And five kids in my apartment and one needing regular child support payments round me out. Yes, my dear husband owns his own business. And this means he has no benefits and brings home cash sporadically after business expenses are paid.

We have a pretty sweet deal where we are. All of our utilities are included in our rent. We have four bedrooms. We do not pay more than 1/3 of our income. We can walk quickly downtown if we want to. We have a small patch of yard. We have parking.


But that is not all. Oh, no that is not all. We also have to prove our income annually. This means allowing people to dig through our tax returns and request information from our employers. This very act cost me a teaching post last year because I had to terminate my adjunct status to prove that I didn't have any classes. When the girls' father ditched the country and abandoned them, I was told to prove I was no longer receiving child support, I would have to have Child Support Services draft a letter saying that the deadbeat loser would not be paying any support for the upcoming year.

And then there is the stigma of all of our neighbors knowing we live in subsidized housing. Reactions vary from those who are irritated that socialism is abutting their property to those who are proud of their ability to rub elbows with their "multicultural" neighbors.

My kids have experienced the range too, from being "one of them" to being touted as so and so's less fortunate charity case.

When people argue that we are foolish to turn our back on such a great deal, they are either too blind or ignorant to see the real cost of our living quarters. So yes, yes, we are moving down the line.

Alice: I've had nothing yet, so I can't take more.
The Hatter: You mean you can't take less; it's very easy to take more than nothing. ~ Lewis Carroll

The Bolly Mama’s Survival Guide to the Holidays

 

It has been a long, long Fall! With winter right around the corner (well, tomorrow anyway) and snow covering the ground, it definitely feels like Christmas, or Yule, or Kwanzaa, or Hanukah, or Ramadan, or whatever you're celebrating this year. I will not go on a rant about the pathetic state we are in by trying to remain politically correct over the winter months. I am not even certain if the term PC really counts regarding this time of year. Anyway, I have some tips and recommendations for getting through in one piece with a boatload of children.

 

1. Cut back on the amount of money spent on each child. Yes, I know that is obvious in the tumultuous economic times we are in, but do people really follow this rule? Can you say you have honestly cut back? I can't! I think I run through the holiday season blind, refusing to look at my bank statement, figuring I will clean it all up in January. Where does this leave me? Hyperventilating after all of the tinsel and wrappings have been thrown away. I promised myself that this year, I would get on top of holiday spending. And it is difficult in my household where three of the six children celebrate their birthdays in December. So, what did I do? I created a Christmas Club (now, that's not PC, is it?) at my bank and made a budget and then promptly blew it around November 15^th.
   

   
    

2. Skip online shopping. Now, forget about PC, this is environmentally disastrous. Trucks are flooding the streets this time of year with packages galore for each household full of children. I love online shopping because I can take Sam & Theo without worrying about a S.W.A.T. team being called in to negotiate Sam off of the rocket display and to pull Theo out of the ball bin. Unfortunately, online shopping means more money spent because of shipping and handling on top of taxes and actually being able to shop. When I am forced to go into a store, I have two options, fill my cart quickly and impulse buy or go in with a list and buy only that. I have tried both tactics and must say, the latter saves money, the former is more fun. Who knew why I needed that hot pink argyle table cloth that Sam added to the cart when I was not looking. It is mystery shopping at its best. So, yes, I prefer online shopping except when it goes awry.
   

   
    

   For example: my favorite place to shop online is Amazon.com because of the price comparisons and all the different vendors. I would like to say shopping there has always been a pleasure and for the most part, it has. Amazon has wonderful customer service and I feel as though my purchases are protected and they are always polite and quick to ship even with the super saver shipping (my favorite thing about the site!). I usually do not venture out to the marketplace because I am timid. This year however, Sammy wanted a rocket for his birthday. Well, I don't know if a three year-old really knows what he wants specifically, but he likes rockets. So determined to find one, I scoped out the internet after realizing I couldn't find one for his age group at any local store. Oh Toy had just the thing. It was red (his favorite color) and came with an alien (everyone in our house likes aliens. Come on, I almost tattooed "The Truth is Out There" back when Duchoveny and Anderson were making big bucks on the X-Files. Thank the gods, I came to my senses. I wonder if everyone should have to be broke when they have a tattoo idea for at least six or seven month).
   

   
    

   Oh Toy also had a little wooden tool set that I thought Sam would appreciate and perhaps this toy would distract him from Drew's real tools. Since Amazon.com itself did not carry the toy, I ordered it on November 18^th. Ten days later, I received an email from Amazon stating that the item had not shipped within the designated timeframe and I should probably contact the seller by replying to the email from Amazon. So, I did that. It was November 28^th by this time, and figured there would still be a chance it would arrive. I wanted it by the 6^th of December.
   

   
    

   Oh Toy did not respond to my email. I was busy busy busy over those weeks with Deirdre's performance in Portland Ballet's The Victorian Nutcracker. In between rehearsals, Thanksgiving, and my grandmother passing, I kept checking my emails and there was no response from Oh Toy. I emailed them again after Thanksgiving inquiring whether or not the toys would arrive by December 6^th and still received no response.
   

   
    

   I began to get nervous when I noticed the negative feedback showing up on their page for failed order fulfillment and lack of communication. Finally, I could wait no longer and canceled the order. I left negative feedback regarding my experience and luckily I did find another vendor on Amazon.com, Grim Reapers! And the rocket arrive within days.
   

   
    

   And then the unthinkable happened, a box from Oh Toy arrived, shipped the 5^th of December. I emailed the business and requested a return label. I was promptly answered with instructions to view the return policy at the website. Irritated that there was a 15% restocking fee, I called Oh Toy to discuss my dissatisfaction as a customer and was told that the manager would have to make the determination whether or not to allow me to return the items. Then I received an email demanding that I remove the negative feedback before Oh Toy would send me a return label. Of course, I am a feisty Aries and this set me on edge. I refused to remove the feedback because it was true and suggested that Oh! Toy send me a return label via email or that I would be forced to take it up with Amazon.com. I never heard another thing from Oh Toy.
   

   
    

   In the end, I did report the incident to Amazon.com, who did refund my money. That is one of many reasons why I do so much business with them.
   

   
    

   Yes, I could have bought a rocket near my home and saved myself a whole lot of headache. Now, I must persuade our local toy store to sell toys that my kids want. Sammy wants to be a spaceman. Or has Camille says, "Sammy is already a little Ass – tranaut".
   

   
    

3. Go away. Yes, you, go away, stop reading my blog. Leave me alone!. No, no, I mean take the family and get the hell out of Dodge. We were forced to do this due to Deirdre's commitment to the Victorian Nutcracker. See, she had performances in Portland, Lewiston, and North Conway, NH. We decided to book a room at Purity Springs Resort in Madison, NH for those performances in North Conway. It was one of the best decisions we have made. It was a pristine setting against a snow covered forest and frozen water. We were forced to do the unthinkable, INTERACT with each other from teenager to toddler. And it was great. Well, for everyone but maybe Dee, because she was working. But, I think she enjoyed the pool and breakfast buffet.
   

   
    

4. Make decorations for the tree. This was Camille's idea. She wanted a Victorian Christmas Tree like Samantha from American Girls. She likes Victorian and gothic things. I do not have any idea if that will still be trendy when she's a teenager. But, she planned our tree from paper fans, glittered pinecones, and beaded ornaments all in burgundy and gold. It is breathtaking, the quarter of it that is finished that is! I popped corn kernals, grabbed a bag of cranberries and sat down next to Sammy thinking I would have a meditative experience while Theo napped. Hah! Sam wrapped thread around his arm and leg until he cut of the circulation and looked like a giant popcorn ball while I yelled at him that he was ruining my trip down memory lane and then I remembered how much I hated stringing popcorn and cranberries when I was growing up! I have noticed over the years, my mother strings her tree with wooden cranberries. Wise woman.
   

   
    

5. Ignore unpleasantness. When someone leaves a nasty message on your answering machine because you were out with five children doing Christmassy things like grocery shopping, dance lessons, Nutcracker rehearsals, finishing up your final week for one school of classes and preparing vacation for the other, cleaning, decorating, baking, cooking, nursing, do not, I repeat, do not respond. Do not call the person back, do not rise up to their bait. You will regret it, especially if you have to see this person at a holiday gathering!
   

   
    

6. And finally, do what you can to create memories for your children. Bake cookies, even if this means making dough that sits for days or buying premade dough. Kids love cutting out cookies. Play in the snow, even if means making a snow angels with the three year-old, while the one year-old stands in the middle of the yard crying because he can't walk in his boots (at least, I think that was what was bothering Theo). Or just hang out and watch Dr. Seuss's "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas". It can't get any better than that.
   

Nana's Eulogy

My mother and Paul would point out the farm nestled in the hills as we crept down and up winding roads in our blue Chevy. It always seemed like a long drive packed into the car squished between Jenny and Christmas presents. The view of frozen trees some years with snow, others bare are all meshed in my head. We spent our childhood Christmases with Nana and Bumpa Fogg and because of that, my memory of the holiday will forever be entwined with travel, snow, woods, old sleighs, blaring fire trucks with Santa perched inside, cowbells, and family.

Not that it was only winter that we visited. I specifically remember rambling up the dirt driveway when summer was still in full swing. There was a tire dangling from an ancient tree, the white of the house sparkled, and the grass was almost too green against a sky that shone too iridescently in a way that made it feel unreal like a blue screen for a movie. In the center of nature’s exaggerated hues Nana was sunbathing. Her bronze skin twinkled against her blue swimsuit. She stood up to greet us and I was struck by her beauty. It was a mixture of Katherine Hepburn and Rita Hayworth. My nana did not look like other kid’s grandmothers. She was young, lean, raw. Her hair was full and lush with color. Her face was free of wrinkles, her eyes were alive with thoughts that went beyond baking us cookies and treats. I used think that was why she was “Nana” and not “Grandma”

I told my mom that I wanted to speak of memories of my Nana. Then I sat down and began to sift through them, sketching ideas here and there, jotting down notes, talking to my husband and children. I remember Nana’s zombie walk. She rolled her eyes to the back of her head, dangled her long fingers in front of her outstretched arms and she moaned better than any actor in Night of the Living Dead. Jenny and I ran from her squealing like piglets, laughing into our cupped hands, and clutching each other’s arms.

There were Christmases too many to count spent at the Fogg Homestead. Sleeping in that small room off of the dining room, I could hear the adults laughing, speaking in sharp whispers, glasses and bottles clinking as they wrapped last minute gifts. Nana slept on the couch beside the wood stove that held our holiday stockings. A camera was tucked tightly in her hand as she waited for Jenny or I to wake her up as we snuck over the creaky board to collect our treats.

One summer, we visited and Nana brought us out walking in the fields to see the cows. Jenny and I liked to name them all Joanne for our mother. I was lagging behind watching my feet move in my mother’s tan sneakers through the tall grass. I was surprised that these feet had already grown to her size and soon would surpass her. Ahead of Nana and Jenny, I spied a tree stump that called out to be jumped upon. My big feet started moving and I passed the others. Nana hollered for me to watch out for the cow dung just as my mother’s sneakers left the ground and I cascaded through the air, yellow hair breezing behind me. For a brief second, I felt exhilarated and free and then it was over as my feet met with what should have been solid wood and my mother’s sneakers sunk into manure.

I spent this past Tuesday filtering through a couple of photo albums and a box of loose pictures looking for images of Nana for the memory board. I worked with my three daughters, Claudia, Camille, and Deirdre while Theo tottered around and Sam cruised like a rocket. It was a difficult task for the four of us because of the memories wedged in of our previous family. This has been a year of departure for us; fathers leaving the country, lost pets, and our family matriarch passing on.

I wanted to choose one memory to speak about that captured my Nana as I remember her, but I was scared that I would recount it wrong, that others who had been there would
remember it differently, that I would be perceived as lying. I have always been too concerned with how others think of me and what I say, so I don’t speak. I write. But, I write fiction because I worry that I do not remember things correctly, that no one remembers things correctly. I am convinced that our memories are tempered and transformed by our thoughts, feelings, and time.

For example, in my mind, I remember places I have been in either bright light or shadows. My first apartment is an array of dark dancing from wall to carpet to dirty window. In contrast, my memories of the Fogg Homestead are glitter and sparkling snow, every room lit up with enchantment, each door ready to take Jenny and I some place new like Oz or Narnia.

That’s how I remember Nana, dark curly hair with bronzed tips, eyes the color of sun bleached denim, small stature with large giving hands and feet like my own, big and strong. In my mind, I will always seen Nana in a bikini pulling herself up from her lounge chair, stretching to greet us, bright, feisty, and magical. Our memories are what we are left with. And it does not matter whether I remember it exactly like everyone else does, because our memories are sculpted by our individual experiences, thoughts, and feelings. My Nana lives on within me, through the smiles of my children, the eyes of my Uncle David, the shape of my face, the lips of my mother, the temperament of my sister. She will be with me and you always.