Eldercare specialist and emerging blogger Emily George has a knack for the quirky true story that contains many things, in this case, errant mice, tap dance, caregiving, and motherhood.

I. Carol

That day I arrived at Carol’s house a little early because she had to be at a physical therapy appointment. I help Carol out every weekday morning. First, I remind her to take her pills; most days, I remind her three times because she is easily distracted. We go for walks and do her exercise program because she would never initiate either on her own. I help her with organization and make sure her bills don’t get lost and do get paid. We talk, have coffee, and laugh; Carol is an eccentric, fun, lovable lady. She has a magnificent outlook on life even though she is in some pain every single day. Carol’s stature was shortened over time because of kyphosis, which is often called a dowager’s hump.  It has a negative effect on Carol’s ability to perform daily tasks easily. Her back, chest, and neck ache throughout the day. She has trouble lifting her head because of it; but when she does, you can see her beautiful smile and intriguing gray and brown eyes. Those eyes sparkle when she laughs. Carol’s laugh actually reminds me of a witch’s cackle, in a good way, and her smile can light up a room. I saw that smile shortly after I arrived.  

“I have a little mouse friend, and he is a boy!” Carol chirped as I came to the door. “He slept near my chair all night long! I left some peanut butter and bread on the floor, in case he’s hungry.”

Poor Carol, I’d suspected she was probably a little lonely living on her own, but this new friendship threw me. Her daughter would not be pleased to know a mouse was crashing here, no doubt pooping all over the place.  

It was already time to leave for the appointment; and of course, she wasn’t ready. I quickly got to work hunting for her bag, glasses, and phone. These items were always scattered all over the house. I remembered seeing her glasses on the table next to her chair, so I walked into the den to find them. On the table right in the middle of her drink coaster was her mouse friend. You know the type: Tiny and brown with big ears and beady eyes; he was not startled by me, but I was startled by him.

“Um…Carol…I found your mouse friend!” I said hesitantly.

She eagerly came down to see him. It was the best I’ve seen her walk without a cane in a long time. Did I mention I was searching for her cane, too? We stood and watched while the mouse jumped from the table to the chair. He climbed to the top of the chair back and leapt to a high cabinet. From there, he hopped up and clawed onto a picture frame hanging on the wall.

“Look at him go!” she cheered, fascinated by his gymnastics; she was thoroughly enjoying the show. 

The mouse shimmied to the top of the frame. Then there was nowhere left to run. He jumped; but this time, he plummeted to the floor.  

Carol joked (at least I think it was a joke), “While we are out, we should get him a parachute!”

“We may have to resort to Amazon for that one,” I said. Carol laughed. She realizes on a daily basis that her memory is slipping. It bothers her, but she has a positive attitude. She is very grateful for the supportive people in her life. We all wonder how long she can remain in the house she loves.

At this point, we really had to get going. I grabbed Carol’s glasses off the table, and we headed for the door. When we got into the car, Carol complained of a headache, so I told her I would run back inside and get her pain medicine. We were definitely going to be late. So be it.

I walked into the den and scanned the room. There was the mouse on top of the heating vent which was right in front of the sliding glass doors. I ran into the kitchen and found a plastic container. I tiptoed back into the den; moving slowly, then I took the plastic container and placed it over the mouse. I pulled the mat that lay in front of the sliding glass door and carefully slid the mouse and the container on top.  

“Holy crap,” I whispered.

I opened the slider, threw everything out onto the deck, and watched the mouse scurry down the deck steps.  

“I did it!” I cheered to myself.

I quickly grabbed the mat and the container, brought them back into the house, locked the slider, grabbed the container of pain pills, headed out to the car, and off we drove.  

As soon as we pulled out of the driveway, Carol said, “I can’t wait to see my mouse friend later!”  

“I’m sure he can’t wait to see you,” I said.

Eek!

II. Tap Dance

“Emily, I’ve got a bug, can you possibly help teach the girls’ tap class tonight?” Miss Victoria asked me over the phone. She sure sounded sick. 

“Me?” I asked, stalling to think up an excuse. Like most moms, I have trouble saying no.

“The high school girls will instruct, but you can help the littlest girls,” she said. “You’ll be great.”

“Sure,” I heard myself say. How could I say no? This was Miss Victoria. She has been the director of the dance program for almost 40 years; she’s the head honcho!  

I had been taking an adult tap from Miss Victoria for a couple of years and performed in the finale recital every year, so I felt pretty confident that I could at least assist. Plus, my own daughter was in the class, so I had to be at the school anyway. 

My daughter Hailey and I arrived at the retro public-school cafeteria, not the ideal dance studio but good enough. The old wood floors gleamed as if they’d been waxed the day before. Right away, I met Miss Victoria’s two teenage assistants who were supposed to teach the class. They were young, clearly first-year assistants. Unsure what to say to the parents, the teens were sweet to the girls, giving each one a hug as they walked into class.  

When it was time to begin, I looked at the assistants and asked, “Are you going to start teaching class?” They looked at me like I had five heads. 

“Miss Victoria said you would be teaching!” They spoke in unison.

I took a deep breath and called all the 5- to 7-year-old girls to the floor.

“Okay, friends, we are going to get warmed up,” I said with a shaky voice. I called out, “Shuffle, tap, shuffle, tap.” Miraculously, they shuffled and tapped.

My eyes were drawn to the little girl smack dab in the middle of the class; she was standing right beside my daughter. Kenzie had white blonde hair, thick pink glasses, and pale sensitive skin, almost translucent skin, if I’m being honest. Above her glowing form, I happened to notice that one of the tiles in the ceiling was missing a corner. It was the only tile in the entire cafeteria that had a hole.

The class was running so smoothly, all of the little tappers making cute music in the room. Kenzie beamed as she shuffled. My daughter enjoyed having me as her teacher and I was very relieved that I’d known just what to say. 

I started to relax, and the teen assistants were following along standing on either side of me. I smiled and remembered why I love tap. That was the exact moment something fell out of the hole in the ceiling (the one I mentioned) and landed on Kenzie’s glowing shoulder. It slid down her arm and dropped to the floor. Immediately, Kenzie started to scratch at her arm which turned blood red in seconds.   

“It’s a MOUSE!” my daughter screamed. “Mom, help!”

“Oh my God,” said one of the teens. “Disgusting! They totally spread bacteria!”

As the dancers started screaming and running in all directions, the mouse dodged every tap shoe and ran to safety in the vestibule, which is exactly where the girls put all their dance bags. Poor Kenzie was in tears.

I couldn’t believe what was happening. Was I on camera?  

“Girls, return to your spots,” I said calmly but loudly enough to be heard above the screams. Inside, of course, I was screaming too. They obeyed. I hugged Kenzie and told her she’d be fine. Her arm was now merely the color of a strawberry milkshake. “The mouse is in the vestibule,” I continued. “We will deal with the situation after class.”  

Surprisingly, we were able to finish class.  

I was pleased but dread filled my body as I accepted that I would now have to deal with the mouse.

“Molly,” I said to one teen assistant, “I am going to need your help with the mouse.  

“No! I HATE mice.” Molly said with disgust. “I can’t help you. I am so sorry.”  

I turned to the other assistant.

“Kelly, do you like mice?” I asked, laughing.

Kelly was willing to help me shake each girl’s bag before giving it to its owner. At one point, I picked up a sparkly pink bag, and the mouse leaped out. It ran around for a second and climbed into a red bag. Aha! Now, I knew its exact location, so I handed out the remaining bags.  

“What do we do now?” asked Kelly.

“I have a plan,” I said, because if I could take over a tap class at the last-minute, I could evict a mouse from a cafeteria. 

“What plan?!” both teens asked.

“Open the door to the outside courtyard,” I told Kelly calmly. She did, then ran off squealing.

I tossed the red bag out the door; I saw the mouse escape; I swiftly grabbed the red bag, brought it back inside, and slammed the door shut.

I walked into class with the red bag, and I saw Kenzie.  

“That’s mine,” she said.

“Of course, it is,” I said.

Beside Kenzie was her equally pale mom, squinting in a state of confusion. Time to explain why Kenzie’s arm looked like it had briefly caught on fire.  

Eek!

III. June

We moved into a severely neglected house during the summer of 2019. Even though the house was in total disarray, it was easy to see its potential. My favorite room is the front room; it has hardwood floors, a wood stove, and an enormous paned window overlooking the front lawn. Upon first sight, I could already envision tearing down an awkward wall, so the kitchen and dining room would open to this space. Adding a new wood stove with a glass front would make my morning coffee feel spiritual; and installing a picture window would allow me to view the wildlife already in action in our yard. I could imagine these changes, but I had to deal with reality at hand…the neglect. Because of the neglect, we inherited an alarming mouse problem. It would be important to shore up any areas on the exterior to prevent further infestation, and deep clean the entire house. 

While my husband, Jason, and I began this dirty work, our two young daughters explored the neighborhood. They became fast friends with the family across the street, Paul and Katie and their daughters, Maddie and Maxine.  

Our girls loved to play with Maddie and Maxine. It was summertime, so they played inside and outside from dawn to dusk. One day, while the girls were playing in the other family’s garage, my older daughter, June, spotted their mouse “snap” traps. Now, June loves all animals, including all rodents, so she was utterly disgusted that they had snap traps that would kill a precious little mouse.  

June probably stomped her foot on the cement floor of the garage and shouted, “I’ll take care of this problem if it’s the last thing I do!” 

She took it upon herself to set off every last mouse trap in their garage. Not that she told me.

Later that evening, Maddie clued her mom in on June’s quest.

Meanwhile, June came back to our house where Jason and I were busy tearing down the kitchen wall. There we discovered that mice were hiding pistachio shells.

“June, did you have fun playing with Maddie and Maxine?” I asked distractedly.  

She responded with a single, extremely loud word, “Yes!”

A week went by. My husband and I were spending every waking minute doing renovations when I finally saw Katie at the mailbox.  

“Hi, Katie!” I hollered.

“Boy, do I have a story for you,” she called, walking toward me.

As Katie talked, I pictured June in a burglar’s mask and cap, moving deftly and valiantly to un-spring each kill-trap, cackling mischievously. 

“She’s dedicated,” added Katie, grinning. 

Katie thought it was comical; I was mortified.

“Katie, I am so sorry,” I said.“I would love to say that I can’t believe June did this, but this is just the sort of thing she does all the time.”

“I’m with June,” she said, laughing. “I hate the snap traps. But I let Paul win on that one.”

“Well, I’m going to have June speak to both you and Paul. She needs to learn a lesson.”  

I went home and asked June about the mousetrap incident.  

“Yeah, I did it!” she boldly admitted. “I’d do it again!”

“June, you need to apologize to Katie and Paul the next time you see them. But just apologize, don’t get into the politics of killing mice–please?” 

I showed her my serious face, the one that says “I will take away your phone.”

“Okay. I will,” June said softly.

“What you did, without even asking their permission, isn’t okay,” I said.

I could have stood there and lectured June all day, but it would have fallen on deaf ears. Instead, I took my anger out on our master bathroom; it needed to be demolished eventually. The aqua shower tile hurt my eyes; its mold from years of unvented moisture hurt my lungs.    

The next time June went over to Katie’s, she asked if they could talk.

“Ms. Katie, my mom said I have to apologize to you and Paul,” she said. “Here I go…I am sorry I set off all your mouse traps. Even though I’m really not.”  

June didn’t even take a breath before continuing on. “Do you know how cruel it is to kill innocent mice by snapping them in a trap?”

 “Um. Confidentially, it’s all him,” Katie told her.

After they took a deep dive into their love of mice and their disgust for snap traps, June asked where she could find Paul so she could complete her mandatory apologizing, not that he would ever understand. Katie pointed her to the backdoor.

June walked slowly into the garage with her head down and found Paul.  

June said softly, “Paul, can I talk to you?”

“Of course!” Paul said, knowing what was coming.

“I am really sorry for setting off all your snap traps,” June started.

Paul opened his mouth, but June wasn’t finished. She was about to throw Katie under the bus.

“Katie told me that you are the one who decided to set these snap traps in the garage!” June announced. “Even though your kind wife cares about all creatures!”

I would imagine he found himself at a loss for words.

“Snap traps are a cruel way to kill mice!” June went on (as reported by Katie, who was eavesdropping). “There are more humane ways to get rid of mice. You should be ashamed of yourself for setting these death traps!”  

June stomped off and ran up their long driveway. Paul stood there in disbelief, until Katie stepped into the garage. I guess June told him.

This was all of five minutes ahead of her next phone call to me.

EEK!

Emily George is an occupational therapist, eldercare provider, writer, cook, and girl mom living in Baltimore County.

When writer/mom/UBalt student Jennifer Johnson met Nick in the adopt-me window at Petsmart, she couldn’t look away. They conversed for an hour. This cat was like no other.

Frantically trying to get my attention from behind the glass at Petsmart, 1-year-old Adonis looked like a run-of-the-mill tabby—at first, anyway. As I looked more closely, I saw that his head and arms were comically small, while his ears and body were enormous. Although I was still on the fence about adding another cat to our family so soon after the death of two previous furballs, I flagged a Petsmart employee down and asked to spend some time with Adonis. His coat felt silkier than any cat I had ever owned; he had the most intricate black swirls on his sides and symmetrical black spots on his belly. His eyes were perfectly round and his nose was large and rectangular. After an hour or so of contemplation, I called my husband to the store and we decided to welcome this boy into our home, renaming him Nick Valentine after a noble robotic detective from my favorite video game: Fallout.

As a lifelong cat lover, I thought I knew cats. I was used to them being chill, accepting my love whenever I wanted to give it to them, contentedly eating their regular wet and dry food, and just being normal, well, cats. But everything I knew about my pet felines changed when we added Nick Valentine to our family.

Unlike our other cats, who could laze in the sun for hours at a time, Nick had a ton of energy. At any moment, he might take off in a flash of brown and black and not stop until something got in his way, at which point he’d simply claw his way up and over the obstruction. He was also, compared to any other cat I’d met, a genius. Within his first few days he could differentiate between the neighbors’ footsteps and ours, and run to greet us at the door. By watching and emulating my family, he learned to activate our water dispenser on the fridge. After observing my son’s unique way of tearing into his snacks, Nick learned to open the pantry door from the bottom instead of using the knobs at the very top. He also was vocal, too vocal almost. While my other two cats only meowed when it was dinnertime, Nick would spend all day screaming at us, vocalizing whenever something puzzled or angered him, if he got too excited, or if we just happened to glance at him in the wrong way.

“I don’t see Bengal cats often!” exclaimed the vet when I took Nick for a check-up.

Bengal? I had never heard of that breed before. Was Nick some kind of tiger?

The DNA test the vet suggested was too expensive for us, but he was sure that Nick was at least a Bengal mix. Care and feeding of a Bengal, he explained, was a little different from our other cats. “Bengals are escape artists,” he warned, which I had experienced firsthand when Nick bolted out of our front door one morning when I was on my way to take my son to school.

“A breeder could have rejected him, since he doesn’t have spots, or one of his parents escaped and bred with a wild cat, and that’s how he ended up in PetSmart.” The vet’s predictions broke my heart since none of that was Nick’s fault, and I decided right then to take his advice and instruction seriously.

That night I got to work.

As I learned, Bengal cats are bred from Asian Leopard cats, which are wild, undomesticated animals. As such, some states heavily regulate the breeding and ownership of Bengals. Depending on their markings and pedigree, they are sold for between $1,000 and $5,000. The most expensive and sought-after Bengal is that with the spotted/rosetted coat, which makes the cat look strikingly similar to a leopard. Bengals also can have a marbled pattern, which can present as simple lines, blotches, or spots.

Because Bengal cats have boundless energy, they need something to keep them occupied. This is why Nick would destroy my house when we weren’t home, pushing things off counters and tearing up boxes, books, and paper. He had early on torn down our bedroom curtains, destroyed half of a Costco-sized pack of paper towels, and broken into my guinea pig cage more times than I could count (thankfully leaving my guinea pigs alone each time).

But after we figured out that his favorite toys were long cylindrical objects like pencils and straws, we left plenty of those out for him to play with. Once we provided him with the enrichment he needed, our house became calmer. Coming into the living room first thing in the morning no longer felt risky.

Bengals require a special diet to keep their coat and overall health in good shape. When we could afford it, we began to feed Nick raw meat chunks of chicken and fish, which meant of course that the other cats got the upgrade as well. All relished the special treats, but Nick seemed to benefit the most. He has not had any major health issues in the two years we’ve owned him and the raw meat seems to satiate him.

Perhaps most importantly, I had to learn to love Nick for who he is. He was not, nor would he ever be, a “normal” cat. In my research I learned that some people adopt Bengals for the benefit of having an active cat or because of their hypoallergenic fur, but because they cannot handle how busy they are, they release them into the wild or surrender them. I was determined not to let my frustration with Nick get to the point of having to rehome him, so I changed. I learned to live with the random outbursts of energy, the howling day in and day out, and the curiosity that often ended with him making a mess for me to clean up.

Owning a cat who can fetch, enjoys going on walks with a harness, and will happily run on an exercise wheel to let out some energy is a unique experience, one that I would not trade. When Nick curls up beside me at the end of the day, holding onto my arm and purring louder than any other cat I’ve known, looking at me with eyes full of love, I am just glad that PetSmart employee didn’t think to give me any idea what I was getting into.

Jennifer Johnson, a mother, writer, and gamer, hopes to graduate from the University of Baltimore at the end of 2024 and use her skills to make a positive impact in the DMV area .

Erin Rothwell is a high school English teacher at Maryvale Preparatory School in Lutherville, whose goal is to ignite curiosity and encourage others to venture out and embrace new experiences. She shares the lessons she learned on her family’s trip to Helsinki, Finland.

As we stepped out of baggage claim onto the train bound for downtown Helsinki, the first question that crossed my mind was, “Where should we eat?” Envisioning my family leisurely exploring the local food market, I pictured stumbling upon a young artisan offering samples of homemade lingonberry jam on Finnish crackers. I imagined myself savoring fish soup from a hand-carved kutsa made from birch.

Our path led us down the Esplanade, heading towards the waterfront where the renowned market awaited. Despite the already snow-covered ground, snowflakes began to fall, creating a picturesque scene. We were truly in Finland, and the falling snow clung to our eyelashes, making the experience even more magical for our Baltimore family. 

We approached the market and my husband, armed with his phone GPS, pointed ahead – only to find three or four market stalls. Yes, you read that correctly, three or four. In my excitement, I had overlooked one crucial detail: Saturday closing times differed from weekdays. The familiar pang of disappointment crept in, that moment families reach when something built up doesn’t quite pan out. While we weren’t at the “National Lampoon’s Vacation” level yet, there was a fleeting Chevy Chase moment when I realized Wally World was closed. 

Nevertheless, a beacon of hope emerged in the form of the Flying Cinema Tour of Helsinki. Having experienced a 4D city tour/movie in Rise, New York, I assured my family that this would be a great alternative. The Flying Cinema impressed with its cool ambiance, resembling a nightclub named PALM. The decor, adorned with pink LED tube lights and stylish furniture, offered plenty of Instagram-worthy moments. Even my teenage daughter reveled in the photo ops. Surprisingly, a children’s birthday party unfolded in the corner, with little voices exclaiming “Hyvää syntymäpäivää” (“happy birthday” in Finnish). 

The bartender, doubling as the movie operator and ticket seller, made for a slow drink service. However, I soon realized that Finns operate in a less transactional manner than Americans. Their unhurried pace, initially irksome to an East Coast native, began to resonate with me as an invitation to simply “be.” Instead of the usual routine of buying a ticket, watching a movie, and leaving, we sat at a high-top table, observing the ebb and flow of people while immersing ourselves in the Finnish ambiance. 

The movie, a 4D flying tour of Finland, offered seat belts, elevating our expectations. However, the film, while visually appealing, didn’t quite match the exhilarating scenes depicted on the website. The experience, though, exceeded the movie itself. It wasn’t about the American-style rush; it was about soaking in the atmosphere, embracing the Finnish way of life, and realizing there are myriad ways of living beyond our familiar shadows. 

My takeaway from this unexpected adventure in Helsinki was a newfound appreciation for the unique experiences that travel brings. While I initially sought a brief 15-minute 4D extravaganza, what I received was an immersive encounter that transcended the movie itself. Traveling abroad offers more than just glimpses of other cultures; it challenges us to reevaluate our way of life and opens our eyes to the multitude of ways people live around the world.

Author Mary C. “grew up in an alcoholic household, vowing to be different, but found myself in my own struggle with addiction.” Read her harrowing yet truly hopeful story. (Happy new year!)

Church basements were familiar to me growing up, with their neutral brown folding chairs and dirty chalkboards. The adults drank scalding coffee with powdered creamer and old sugar, always in those ubiquitous white foam cups. I couldn’t name everyone I recognized, but their faces were kind, and it seemed like they understood everything about how we were struggling. My sister and I had to be quiet for the hour, but at the end, we got to hold hands in a large circle and pretend to recite the Serenity prayer. These were Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meetings, and my mom was changing her life. She was a binge-drinker, and she had met my dad at the Gunpowder Lodge on Belair Road–a fall from grace for a girl with a Catholic school upbringing.

My grandparents had once been so proud of her wonderful grades and impressive skill in extracurricular activities, like band and basketball. She was even scouted locally. Maybe this drive for perfection was overcompensating for her trauma and family secrets, and it began to catch up with her. Before she could get to college, she was kicked out of her home, staying with friends and family. Eventually, as a young adult, she found herself living in a shabby apartment with two young children, an alcoholic and drug addict husband in and out of jail, scraping by on food stamps. My mom knew something had to change, and all she had was a mustard seed of hope. But it was enough.

This iota of hope, with the help of AA, was fostered to grow into steely fortitude. One day at a time, my mom came to believe in this new way of living, trying her best to hold true to her promise to show up for life, to simply be open to welcoming good things she didn’t know she deserved. The going was not perfect, and it was many years before she finished her bachelor’s degree, but she pushed further to earn several advanced degrees and is now a licensed psychiatric nurse practitioner.

On July 2, 2009, at the age of 21, I started my own journey of recovery in AA. “Started my journey” is quite euphemistic—I had nowhere left to go, no other options. I drank only for three years, but the damage was staggering. Just like my mom, my addiction took me to a place I did not recognize—from Dean’s list to failing, burned bridges with friends and family, no self-respect. The drive that had once propelled me to hang on, tooth and nail, to my aims, to always follow through and do my best, to try and try again until I succeeded, was my motivation in continuing to try to drink normally. I knew AA was where I needed to go, but I spent my childhood wanting to be anywhere and anyone other than where I was, who I was and who my family was. I faced certain death, and AA was asking me to do the impossible: accept who I am.

Somehow, over time, self-acceptance started to take hold. It began as gratitude for simple things, and I did become truly grateful AA had been so close by all those years. I could say whatever I wanted about my mom, but the irrefutable fact was she had decades of continuous sobriety, and she was accomplishing great things.

I’ve now passed my first decade sober, and just like my mom did, I’m inching my way toward obtaining my bachelor’s degree. I’ve transferred schools, stopped, and restarted multiple times, but my education has always been my most important life milestone, and I’m just trying to keep showing up to receive what I deserve.

My dad was not so fortunate—he died as a direct result from his addictions, about 11 years ago. His presence in our lives was very erratic. He would sometimes splurge on us girls for the holidays; other times, he wouldn’t show to pick us up from school. It never dawned on me, on the long rides in my grandfather’s Buick out to the halfway house in Westminster, that maybe my dad just couldn’t love himself enough to get and stay clean and sober. That’s what hurts the most. Because I know now, from my struggles, that addiction has everything to do with a cycle of emotional isolation and utter despair. And though my alcoholism totally upended my plans for my life, the options are clear: this imperfect compromise of my dreams or death.

University of Baltimore MFA in Creative Writing & Publishing Arts student Albert Phillips remembers–with great affection–his fiercely compassionate and complicated grandmother Delores.

Roadkill

I remember the bloody and skinned muskrat that Grandpop laid out on your small, circular kitchen table. Resembling roadkill, its fangs were still intact, and Grandpop was preparing it for dinner. It was a delicacy only to him. He consumed other irregular animals: duck, rabbit, deer. If it could die and be sold, he would eat it. My cousins and I fake vomited when we saw the carcass removed from a bag, after Grandpop came in from a bike ride. Grandpop loved the bike rides just as much as he loved the animals he came back with. I wonder if you ate the roadkill with him.

The Vacant House

I remember playing outside with my older cousins, Ryan, Robert, and Rodney, at your two-story row home on Orleans Street. The outside had dark blue, chipped paint and any number of seconds inside was a lung cancer risk. Every adult who entered lit up a “fug” or “loosie” and casually smoked their days away while talking and watching whatever was on the television. One day, the R brothers went into the vacant home next to yours—the one you warned us never to enter—and I was the lookout, charged with ensuring no adults caught us. I firmly held my post. Aunt Robin, your only daughter, came out the front door of your house and asked, “Where your cousins at?” Before I could answer, they came sprinting out the front door of the forbidden vacant house, laughing to mask how scared they were. Aunt Robin caught us. You got word of it and lined us up—corporal punishment ensued.

Television

I remember my mom dropping me off at your house after school. You sat in the living room, on the sectional couch, watching The Young and the Restless or Guiding Light. I hated “the stories,” as you called them, but I would still sit and watch them with you until Batman: The Animated Series came on. I wanted to be like Batman, with all his billionaire gadgets and calm bravado. On weekends in the summer, I would lay on your bedroom floor with blankets because your room was the only one with an AC unit. I remember Bill Nye the Science Guy and Transformers playing on the television. You and Grandpop preferred Westerns. 

In-Home Physician

I remember pretending to be Barry Sanders while in the alley near your house. I would juke, speed up, slow down, stiff-arm, and spin just like I saw Barry do during NFL games. A few times, I ended my alley football season early due to injury and got carried in by my cousins to you. You would slowly wrap my ankle with an ACE bandage and tell me I would be fine. I never went to the doctor while visiting you because you were the physician of the house. You kept everything from painkillers to bandages in a first-aid kit within arm’s reach.

Beatings

I remember your beatings. You were the only adult I remember beating me. I would stand and whimper before you hit me with your slipper, stick, or whatever was closest to your favorite recliner chair. My cousins would do the same. One day, in my fifth year of life, you beat me, and I promised never to return to your house. I lied. I came back the next weekend like it never happened. You always reminded me of this story, especially the part when I proclaimed, “I’m not coming back here no more,” and you responded “Good, don’t come back.” Neither of us meant what we said that day in 1995.

Drinkin’ and Smokin’

I remember you smoking Marlboro cigarettes by the carton and drinking whiskey mixed with Coca-Cola. I think Tupac played on your stereo system one time, which was strange because you did not listen to rap. I remember you smoking and laughing with Aunt Robin late into the night. I think this encouraged my cousins to start smoking. Eventually, you opted for a sober lifestyle. Grandpop did not follow in your footsteps. He drank National Bohemian beers and recycled the cans, and other cans in the neighborhood, for money from the scrap yard. You vowed to walk slowly behind his casket if he died due to his alcohol addiction. You kept your promise.

Chinese Food

I remember my dad moved you from your overcrowded and rundown house on Matthews Street to my parents’ more comfortable home in Cedonia. I was happy he chose to move you, and I was happy you chose to go along with it. I remember coming to see you. In those days, you seemed healthier because you were no longer surrounded by a fog of cigarette smoke, and you were walking from the basement to the first floor to cook your own food. You also ate what my father purchased, and stepmother prepared. You complained, though. You were sick of “baked salmon and bland vegetables,” so I would bring you Greenmount Avenue’s finest Chinese food from time to time. Your favorite was Shrimp Yat Gaw Mein with no onions, extra shrimp, and an extra egg. You would smile and sway from side to side when I came through the back door to deliver your food like an Uber Driver. I always loved your smile.

Barbecued Pork Shoulder

I remember you cooking barbecue pork shoulder at your house near Belair Road. I think you figured I thought less of you since I was living in Cedonia with my dad. “I know this is probably not what you’re used to eating,” you said, explaining what was for dinner. I did not complain or grimace. I was thankful to be with you and to eat what you had “slaved over the stove” to create for the family. How could I shame the hands that prepared the food, even if it was something I wasn’t used to? That would be blasphemy.

30 Minutes with You

I remember you calling and asking, “You busy?” knowing that in most cases I would respond, “Nah, what’s going on?” regardless of what I was doing. Most of the time you just wanted Chinese food, a case of water, some sugar-free candy, a book of crossword puzzles. I loved coming to your apartment in Towson to drop off your requested items. When I got there, I would check your mail, sweep your kitchen, and take out the trash you had waiting for me. Those 30 minutes with you made your day, and that’s all I really wanted to do.

Honorary Degree

I remember you coming to every college graduation. You were there when I got my AA from Baltimore City Community College in 2011, BS from Morgan State in 2013, and MS.ED from Johns Hopkins in 2019. You also attended all my dad’s college graduations and my oldest brother’s high school graduation as well. When I look through the pictures, I can see you aging little by little in each one. Your weight increases, your hair goes from black to gray, and you go from standing upright to sitting with your walker. My dad told me all you wanted him to do was earn his high school diploma because you never earned yours. I am blessed to know that we exceeded your expectations many times over. You deserve an honorary degree in compassion.

Death

I remember my dad calling me while I was driving on North Avenue to tell me that you died. He said the nurse came by to check on you in your apartment and found you deceased in your favorite recliner chair. Your television was still on and the cords from your oxygen tank were still connected to your nostrils. On your bedroom table was an altar-like gathering of items I had given you. Two books, a signed poster, and an empty flower vase all sat there for guests to see when they visited you. They were still there when I met the family and March Funeral Home workers at your apartment before the workers put on hazmat suits, put your body inside a massive white bag, and took you out on a stretcher.

Ascendance

I remember your funeral. My dad ensured it was a beautiful celebration of life, not just a somber event. There was drumming. There was singing. There was dancing. There was so much love in that church on York Road. There were only two things I did not like. The first was the way you looked in the casket. You were in a beautiful light blue dress that my dad and stepmom picked out. It matched the casket my dad and I had picked out for you a week or so prior. However, the mortician made your eyes look squinty. I knew if you could have come back and guided the mortician’s hands, you would have done a better job. I also knew that this funeral was the final time I would see most of my cousins, until the next funeral. More people came to your funeral than attended any birthday event I remember you having. I guess they wanted to say their last goodbyes. It made me question if death was more important than life. I don’t fault them for it. I did not fault anyone for anything that day, besides maybe the morticians.

Voicemails

I remember the time I put your obituary on the refrigerator in my apartment. I stood there in disbelief that you were really gone in the physical form. I stood there and wished I could hear your voice again. Then I remembered that I had numerous voicemails from you on my cell phone. They were short and always ended with “Love you.” They were just what I needed to get by. They still help get me by.

The Afterlife

You used to remind me to slow down and rest so often, and now I see exactly why. You feared me burning out and not enjoying life because of how consumed it is with work and school. Well, I can’t say that I have found the balance yet, but I am trying. I even talk to my therapist about it. Oh, and I have a surprise to share with you. Do you get surprises if you are omnipresent or does the creator limit some of what you can see? Anyhoo, my mom is back. It’s a long story that I will tell you about someday, but I visited her twice and she calls me a few times per week. I know you would be so happy to see her, and she would be delighted to see you. I hope you will continue to guide me. And I hope you are enjoying your break from this world. You deserve it.

Albert is a Baltimore-based writer and educator whose work encompasses the alchemy wrapped within contemporary and past Black life. He often writes stories about the intricacies of family, Baltimore life in the late 90s’, and the necessity of community. He earned a B.S. in Print Journalism from Morgan State University, M.ED from Johns Hopkins University, and he’s an MFA candidate at the University of Baltimore.

The holidays are a lot, and Turkey Day cues the start. Writer–and UBalt MFA in Creative Writing student–Ashley Krumrine describes a recent Thanksgiving that marked a moment when everything changed, but (mostly) not in terrible ways.

Step 1: Thaw the turkey

For every 4 pounds of frozen turkey, you will need 24 hours of thawing time. For a 14-pound bird, plan on pulling the turkey from the freezer five days before the big feast. Move it to the fridge for safe thawing.

After driving eight hours with a restless two-year-old, my mom and I pull into the gravel drive of Grandma’s home in Pinehurst, NC. The temperature is notably warmer from our Pennsylvania temps, and the sun has already set for the day.

We walk around the garage where Grandma welcomes us at the door with a Southern “Hi, sweetie!” Her spotless beige, mint green, and blush pink décor can be seen lit up through the front bay window. Minus the upgraded flooring and kitchen appliances, the house is the same house that I have frequented for the past 25 years. Knowing Grandma, she has spent days cleaning and preparing the house for our arrival.

“It’s good to see you, Mary!” she says, hugging my mom.

Once a Baltimore area local, Grandma retired to a senior golfing community, where the smell of pine needles covering the ground brings back childhood memories each time we visit—fetching golf balls from the pond, feeding the turtles stale bread, putting on the greens at sunset, and collecting pinecones from the yard.

Step 2: Bring out the turkey

Remove the turkey from the fridge and let it sit at room temperature for about 30 minutes. The turkey will cook more evenly if it warms a bit before being popped into the oven.

Charlotte is excited to be at her Gigi’s house for Thanksgiving, but like most grandparents’ homes, there is not a childproof area in sight. Glass trinkets and nice picture frames line the shelves in the front hall, porcelain dishes await on the glass paneled dining room table, and the tan carpet is crisp and pristine. I dread the amount of effort it will take to keep a feisty two-year-old’s hands off all the breakables over the next few days.

Thirty minutes into our visit, we hear a “Whoa” and thud in the back bedroom. Setting down the bags we are unloading, I head to the back to see Grandma on the floor, Charlotte standing next to her dresser.

“You okay?” I say, helping her off the floor.

Grandma gets herself to all fours and uses the dresser to help her stand. She grabs her side with a grimace but steadily walks to the kitchen and then to the living room to rest on the couch. I give her some ice for her side and help her prop her legs on the coffee table.

Step 3: Set up the roasting pan

The gravy comes from tasty pan drippings. You’ll want to add veggies like chopped onion, celery and carrots to the bottom of the pan along with the turkey neck and gizzards. The veggies will help flavor the drippings, as well as help protect them from evaporating away in the oven.

It’s when Grandma goes to stand from the couch that we know something is seriously wrong. She is unable to bear weight on her left leg and it is noticeably shorter than her right. “It feels like it’s floating,” she says. “It feels like it’s not connected.”

At 9 PM, only two hours after arriving at Grandma’s house, Mom and I help EMS get her onto a stretcher and into the back of an ambulance. Because of COVID, only one visitor is allowed with each patient at the hospital. Mom meets Grandma in the ER, and I anxiously wait at home for any news. It can’t be broken, I think. She got up and walked to the kitchen.

“It’s broken,” Mom says over the phone a little after midnight. It’s broken, and all because Grandma stumbled over Charlotte in her bedroom with the lights off.

Step 4: Season the turkey

Pat the turkey dry with a paper towel and rub with a little salt and your favorite seasonings. If you have fresh herbs, add a handful to the cavity, along with some wine or water. It helps keep the turkey moist and flavors the drippings, making great-tasting gravy later. 

“How did she fall?” Dad asks over the phone the next morning, inquiring about his mother.

“She tripped and fell over Charlotte in her bedroom…” I reply, feeling even more guilt saying it out loud.

“Was the light on?” he asks.

“No,” I say quickly, frustrated at my father’s incessant need to know how it happened versus how she is.

“You need to get things in order and make your way down here to be with her,” I tell him. “Mom and I can stay for a few days, but she will need someone at home while she recovers!”

“Um, okay,” he says in disbelief. “I will get packed and head down there in a few hours.”

“Okay,” I reply. “We don’t know an exact time, but she will be prepped for her hip replacement this afternoon. I will keep you updated.”

We hang up. Lord, help me. My divorced parents will be living in the same household for the next few days.

Step 5: Cover with foil

Just before placing the turkey in the oven, create an oven shield out of aluminum foil. Mold a few sheets of foil around the breast area to protect the bird from overbrowning.

Grandma is sleeping when I walk into the hospital room. Her peppered and permed curls are tucked into a netted surgical cap, and her mouth hangs slightly open with her fatigued breaths. At 88, she still looks the same, but her skin appears more translucent, there are more wrinkles and age spots, and she has really thinned out over the years.

Her room is large, with the bed on the left, a couch in the back under the window, and an entertainment area with a sink on the right. The computer to the left of her bed provides enough light for me to navigate the space.

I gently rub her left arm, knowing that she won’t be able to hear me without her hearing aids. She groggily opens her eyes and says, “Hi, sweetie.”

“Hi Grandma,” I reply. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright,” she says. “The one nurse was very rough on my hip earlier when I had to use the commode…”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Can I get you anything?”

But she dozes off in between sentences.

I sit on the couch in the dark for a while, letting her rest. Knowing mom is outside in the car waiting to take me home, I rub her arm again to give her my final love before she goes into surgery.

Step 6: Roast at 325 for 15 min/lb

Grab your oven mitts because it’s time to cook the turkey!

“Everything went well,” the surgeon says. “Due to the bone crumbling and suspected osteoporosis, we had to do a full hip replacement.” Mom and I are filled with relief. “She will be assisted out of bed into a chair tomorrow morning, and PT will have her walking in the next day or two.”

My Dad arrives late that night. “Hey Mary,” he says to my mom. “Hey Russ.” She returns the gesture. “How’s mom?” he asks. We update him on what the surgeon said.

Dad sleeps in Grandma’s bed that night, mom sleeps in the guest bed, and I sleep on an air mattress with Charlotte. We all get some much-needed rest.

Step 7: Check the temperature

Insert the pin of the thermometer into the thickest part of the thigh, being careful not to come into contact with the bone! Remove the turkey from the oven when the internal temperature is 5 degrees below the desired doneness. Don’t worry, turkeys continue to cook even after being removed from the oven, but by removing the bird early, you’re actually ensuring that it doesn’t overcook or dry out.

It’s Thanksgiving—the oddest Thanksgiving I have ever experienced. My grandma broke her hip, my mom and dad are in the same house together, and my husband is stuck back home attending to a job obligation.

Mom leaves early to go see Grandma, Dad awkwardly plays Paw Patrol with the two-year-old granddaughter he rarely sees, and I decide that I am going to make the best out of a shitty situation and cook Thanksgiving dinner.

I prep the green bean casserole, peel the sweet potatoes, slice the bread for stuffing, and put the turkey in the oven. Charlotte helps me put the marshmallows on the sweet potato casserole, her process being “One for Charlotte” & “One for the taters.”

I proudly set the table for us to enjoy a meal together—and I watch as my mom takes a seat to my left and my dad to my right. A sight that I haven’t seen since I was three years old. A sight that I never imagined I would see again.

Step 8: Let it rest

 After you take the turkey out of the oven, let it stand for 20 to 30 minutes before carving. And then there’s only one thing left to do—dig in!

Dad visits Grandma in the morning, while Mom and I work on packing up our things, both of us needing to get back home and to our jobs tomorrow. We arrive to the hospital around lunchtime, and I head into the lobby towards the reception desk, the digital scanner taking my temperature.

“I’m sorry,” the older lady tells me in her Southern drawl. “But that room has already had one visitor sign in for the day.”

“But I’m her granddaughter, and we are headed back home to Pennsylvania today. I wanted to say goodbye,” I plead. But my pleas are pushed to the side.

I walk back out to the car, holding in my tears and frustration. “I just wanna go home,” I tell my mom, too emotionally drained from all that has transpired. But Mom goes inside the lobby, contacts the nurse manager, and manages to get me 15 minutes to say goodbye.

I anxiously head up the elevator to her floor and put on a bright face.

“Don’t be upset, sweetie,” Grandma tells me when I walk in the door.

“I am just so sorry for how everything went,” I tell her through my tears, setting the Saran- wrapped plate of Thanksgiving leftovers on her side table.

“I took a little walk today,” she says to lighten the mood. “And they changed my dressing, which hurt like the devil!”

“That’s great that you walked, Grandma!” I reply. “I don’t have much time, but I wanted to bring you some food and hug you goodbye.”

“You take care of those great grandbabies for me,” she says patting my stomach, hearing aids squealing from our embrace. “Have a safe drive home, sweetie,” she says.

And I leave her to get some rest.

Step 9: Leftovers

In a saucepan, heat up leftover turkey fixings, gravy, and crumbled up stuffing. Pour over grits, and you have my Grandma’s Dressing.

Dad leaves Grandma two weeks after her fall, ensuring that she is set up with proper transportation for getting to doctor’s appointments and outpatient physical therapy.

The ladies in her golf group bring meals, and Grandma texts me pictures of her healing scar. She eagerly awaits permission from her surgeon to resume some light golf play.

We visit her later the next year—with not one little fall risk, but with two!

Recipe steps via https://www.tasteofhome.com/article/how-to-cook-a-turkey.

Writer Daphne Bahl wasn’t sure how she’d cope when the time came for her kids’ ultra-skilled nanny, Dianne, to move on. When Dianne fell seriously ill, Daphne knew she wanted to help Dianne to cope.

“I haven’t seen Dianne in a while—is she still working for you all?” Ashley, fellow mom and baby pool sentinel, casually asks me. We hover, shoulder to shoulder, as our 1-year-old sons gleefully teeter across the splash pad. 

Dianne’s brilliant, mischievous smile flashes in my mind. DeDe. Mommy Two. Dianne, our vibrant, boisterous nanny of nearly six years. More than a nanny, Dianne had been my husband’s and my eager ambassador as we stumbled, sleep deprived, along the shores of planet parenthood. Bossy, enthusiastic and funny, Dianne was exactly what we, two over-educated professionals, with absolutely no idea how to parent, needed.  

“No, she actually moved back to Colorado earlier this spring, to be closer to her family. We’re looking for someone new, so definitely let me know if you hear of anyone,” I say, keeping my voice as light as possible.

I quickly move on, complimenting Ashley’s new pool bag, which is “such a fun color orange!”

Dianne died a month ago. Only 49, she lost a breathtakingly short battle with metastatic breast cancer. The reality of this fact feels garish and surreal on this sunny June morning, as joyful shouts and actual chirping birds punctuate the air. 

This half-truth isn’t just to protect Ashley, now crouched in the dewy grass changing her son’s sopping wet swim diaper, from social discomfort or the reminder of death’s imminence. I know that any attempt to tell the truth will end in tears (mine) and an itchy, stunned silence (hers).  After suffering through a handful of these confessions (and they did feel like confessions) earlier in the month, I am eager to avoid this one. Finding it impossible to convey the intimate and familial nature of our relationship with Dianne, I thus find myself aching to disown my grief; to deprive it of oxygen. If I can shrink my sadness, shield it from public consumption, I won’t have to consider whether our family grew “too close” to Dianne or crossed some invisible emotional boundary meant to separate parents from their children’s caregiver. I wonder, is imposter grief a thing? Do I, does our young family, deserve to feel this much pain over the loss of a non-relative?

Before becoming a mother, my practical lawyer mind found it easy to distill the nanny/parent relationship to the non-emotional essence of any transaction: an at-will employment arrangement in which childcare services are exchanged for payment. Then I became a mom and met Dianne. I was immediately drawn to her that hot August morning she bounded up the steep stone staircase to our living room.

“Hiya,” she said as she launched herself inside. “Man, you sure do have a lot of stairs out there. I never would have bought a house with so many stairs. No worries, though, I’m in excellent shape. You do NOT want a fat nanny, I assure you.” 

My husband and I laughed nervously. Dianne immediately took Isabel from my arms and continued talking. The dark cloud of working mom guilt started to lift.

“I’m originally from a real small town in Missouri, but I’ve traveled the world,” Dianne told us. “I lived in Mexico and then New York City for ten years before I moved here. I have three older brothers in Colorado—they’re all cops.”  

She then regaled us with funny tales of her nannying career, including working for “some very high rollers” who got her courtside seats at the Mets. I had to tell her that any perks of ours would be decidedly less glamorous. Her resume was extensive and references impeccable, her love of children and zest for life both palpable: we had found our unicorn.

While Dianne came from a different world, we seamlessly folded into each other, my family’s house in Baltimore our shared universe. We were both orphans in a way, as none of us had any family within 300 miles of Baltimore. Dianne was our constant companion, our childless but professional guide on the parenthood ascent. She worked the same long hours and unpredictable schedules demanded by our jobs. Dianne never missed a birthday party, school play or end of year party, at her insistence not ours. We conquered breastfeeding, pumping, bottle feeding, pacifier weaning, nap schedules, solid foods, potty training, discipline, adding a sibling, more discipline, more potty training, and adding a second sibling. Dianne was our family.

Like every familial relationship, ours had its conflicts. That bawdy energy that had so enchanted us during her interview could be tiresome. Dianne once got our entire family blackballed from a popular children’s activity gym by posting a scathing public review of the place on Facebook. We waged a longstanding battle over whether hot dogs should be served for lunch only on occasion (me) or as a staple meal (Dianne). Dianne’s feedback was constant, well-meaning and far from subtle. She observed often that I was too lenient with the children, and while this was probably true (working mom guilt), it smarted. In contrast, the kids listened to Dianne obediently, sometimes a little too well. Dianne swore like a sailor when she drove, overcome by road rage, a fact unknown to us until our then two-year-old son Grant greeted his grandfather by saying, “Holy shit, it’s really you, you fucker.”

We saw eye to eye when it came to our approach to raising good kids, and we shared the goal of creating a nurturing environment while also enforcing firm limits. By contrast, Dianne and I had comically different tastes in just about everything else. A Southerner by birth, I favored classic children’s clothing that has admittedly gone out of style in the vast majority of the country, and Dianne could oft be heard yelling, “Stop buying clothes with all these damn buttons!” as she dressed the children for the day. One Christmas she asked for a pair of Lululemon workout pants as part of her gift. I am a shopper and was thrilled to oblige such an easy request, bringing home nine different styles of pants for her to try. To my shock, she laughed and laughed when I presented them.

“These are all so ugly,” she told me. “I hate them all, I would never wear any of those!”

I stuck to cash gifts after that. We passed year one, and then year two, three, and four in a blur of logistics, exhaustion, plenty of laughter and texts, texts, texts. My husband dubbed Dianne and me the dynamic duo because of the rapid-fire text conversations we could carry on before he’d even had a chance to glance at his phone.

You never knew what to expect when a text from Dianne popped up. It could be a link to an article about toddler discipline, with “READ THIS!!!” as the subject line, an animal farm she wanted to venture to, or a tidbit of juicy gossip gleaned during pre-school drop off.

My favorite texts were about “Charlie,” which was the moniker she used for any of the kids if they were having a particularly challenging day.

The text “Charlie came with us today to the zoo” was accompanied by a photo of a hysterical toddler, back arched and writhing. Amidst the chaos, I occasionally considered how long Dianne would be part of our family, and what it would feel like when she was no longer our nanny. She was in close touch with her previous nanny families, so I reassured myself that, when the time came, the transition would be sad but feel natural, something akin to sending kids off to college. The chaos of three children and two demanding jobs put Dianne’s departure on the distant horizon. Sure to be sad, but not exactly pressing.

On Valentines Day 2020, Dianne went in for her first ever mammogram, having recently become insured through Obamacare. She thoughtfully requested the last appointment of the day, and I hurriedly rushed up those damn stone steps and passed her in the noisy hallway.

Dianne: “The kids have already eaten!”

Kids: “MOMMY”

Dianne: “The laundry in the basement needs to be changed.”

Kids: “MOMMMMYYY”

Dianne: “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Kids: “MOOOOOOMMMMMYYYYYY!”

“Good luck,” I yelled after Dianne, knowing she was nervous for the dreaded rite of passage for women of a certain age.

An hour later, I was bathing the kids when I saw text from Dianne. 

“Hey, they see something on my right breast that they need more detailed tests on. I need to come back tomorrow.”

“Ugh that sucks,” I texted. Then I shot back, “I’m sure it’s nothing. Tomorrow is fine, I can WFH so go whenever they can fit you in.”

As I wrestled the kids into pjs, I shuffled calls and meetings to accommodate this second appointment. Two days later, Dianne and I were chatting amiably, sorting through my son’s too-small clothes when her doctor called. She put him on speaker, and we both listened to Dr. Kadid tell us that Dianne had a small cancerous tumor in her right breast. He had already scheduled her for a mastectomy, followed by eight weeks of radiation and finally breast reconstruction surgery. Dr. Kadid was upbeat and ended the call by telling us that “early-stage breast cancer treatment is unpleasant but blessedly routine these days.”

We were both stunned. Dianne was the picture of health—fit, energetic, and young. Without hesitation I assured her that our family would walk beside her; I’d accompany her to all her appointments, give her as much paid time off as she needed. We would juggle her treatment and healing for weeks or months, then we would go back to normal. As the surgery approached, I set up a meal train and a dog walker for her beloved rescue, Frasier, and hired an in-home nurse for her recovery. All of Dianne’s doctors agreed, without hesitation, that she should absolutely plan to continue working, with the exception of the first few weeks following surgery. I began imagining the Instagram-worthy “Fuck Cancer” celebration I would throw in a few months.

Her surgery was scheduled for March 2. Together we went to her many pre-op appointments, and, ever the law school nerd, I took copious notes, noting the times the doctor seemed to trail off or contradict himself, asking question after question, forcing the doctor to clarify or, more often, to admit uncertainty. On the advice of a close friend, we set Dianne up with Dr. Dylan, a breast oncologist at Johns Hopkins University, for a quick second opinion before she went under the knife. Against protocol, Dr. Dylan ordered a PET scan, which examines the entire body for evidence of cancer cells. Based on Dianne’s diagnosis and Dr. Kadid’s confidence in her treatment plan, this scan should have been “clear” except for the tumor in Dianne’s right breast. Instead, Dianne’s body lit up like a Christmas tree, revealing “extensive evidence of metastases” in her spine, liver, and shoulder. Dianne had Stage IV metastatic breast cancer.

The stakes had swiftly and monumentally changed. The confidence and nonchalance of Dianne’s doctors vaporized. Her treatment plan became open-ended.

“We’ll try this chemo pill for six weeks first. It will make you nauseous, give you myopathy in your fingertips; you’ll lose your hair. Then we’ll do another PET scan. If the cancer shrinks, we’ll stick to this pill. If this pill doesn’t work, we have six other chemo options to try. There are clinical trials…”

Every conversation had this Alice in Wonderland quality. Don’t give up hope, but remember you have Stage IV cancer.

My husband and I surprised ourselves with how involved we became, and how quickly. Dianne was single and estranged from her parents. Her family in Colorado made supportive noises, but they seemed befuddled, unsure what role they should play in Dianne’s cancer battle. By contrast, we lived in Baltimore and had resources and connections that we could immediately deploy in service of Dianne’s treatment: we plowed ahead. It did not feel like a choice; over time, it felt like a privilege. Our days became a blur of juggling kids, work deadlines, accompanying Dianne to oncologist appointments, begging to be added to waitlists for clinical trials, late night Googling, scouring cancer message boards, picking up Dianne’s groceries and prescriptions, 3 a.m. texts from Dianne that she was too sick to come into work the next day, scrambles for emergency childcare. Some days Dianne seemed completely healthy, chipper, energetic, and radiant, and we all did a doubletake, wondering if she would beat the odds. And then there were days (weeks?) that Dianne should have been lying in bed instead of caring for our children. They watched TV all day, ordered Domino’s for lunch, and played with Frasier, making forts of his dog cage instead of going to music class and playdates.

Not a single doctor ever actually said that Dianne was dying out loud. I worried that Dianne herself did not know, or did not accept, how sick she really was, what little time she had in front of her. I gingerly tried to ask her if this was how she wanted to spend her numbered days, wondering if she should be caring for our children rather than traveling, seeing the world, checking items off some bucket list. She rebuffed me each time, insisting, in her Dianne way, that nannying was keeping her alive. I worried, constantly, about Dianne, and I worried, constantly, about our kids. How do you guide young children through their first encounter with death when the person dying is their constant companion?

The answer: You just do it. We screwed up in a million ways. And yet, I am proud of us. We leaned all the way into the ugly, uncomfortable, and scary reality. We gave Dianne everything of ourselves, and in so doing we showed our children how to love someone you are losing.

The once distant prospect of Dianne leaving our family was like a freight train that we all heard coming but were powerless to stop. I knew I should start interviewing a new nanny, but who wants a job without a start date? I was adamant that Dianne should leave us on her own terms, my futile attempt to give her back a tiny piece of the power she’d lost. I woke up one Sunday morning to the text I had been dreading: “So, I thought really hard this weekend about the date that I should quit. I have decided that the date will be February 28, and I am going to move to Colorado to live with my brother Manny. This way your new nanny will have time to bond with the kids before she is with them all summer. I love the kids sooo much and can’t believe I’m typing this. See you tomorrow.”

Dianne left us on an unseasonably warm February morning. We milled about awkwardly on the front patio, not sure whether to sit or stand.

“Ok, just one more picture. Please!” I begged, as Dianne and the kids laughed and then groaned at the blinding winter sun.

Dianne gave the kids a tape recording of herself reading their favorite story, “Dear Girl,” along with an analog tape player.

“This is so you can hear my voice whenever you miss me,” she said.

Isabel started crying, but Dianne reminded her, “It’s not goodbye forever; I’ll see you in a few weeks. I’ll bring you another present!” 

The day she left us, we began struggling to find our place in her new life. At first, we kept in constant communication, me texting her pictures of the kids and funny updates daily. She always responded the same way, “I miss them so much it hurts.” 

Soon days and then a week would go by before she would respond.

“Sorry, I’ve been in the hospital with an infection, I’m so tired.”

“I had to surrender Frasier, I’m too sick to take care of him. He is with a great family who lives on a farm. I hope he’s happy.”

“They found two lesions in my brain. It’s spreading again.”

Dianne quickly became too tired and confused to meaningfully communicate, at least from afar. I wrestled with whether it was harder to try to stay in touch or to try to move on. I lay in bed at night and re-read the thousands of texts we’d exchanged over the past five years, looking for “proof” that we meant as much to each other as I thought we did. I visited her Facebook page with the dedication of an obsessed ex-lover. Occasionally, I was rewarded with an update or new photo, but usually there was nothing new.

We never saw Dianne again. She died four months after she left us, on June 11, 2021. I found out from a Caring Bridge post that her brother shared to her Facebook page. We weren’t invited to the funeral. Her family reached out to us once, to ask us to sign a tax document they needed to execute her estate. We procrastinated telling the kids, struggling to find the right words (there are none) and dreading the inevitable dismantling of their innocent worldview.

Once we did finally tell them, they vacillated between inconsolable tears and asking questions like, “Do cell phones work in heaven?” 

Once we caught our breath, we held our own memorial service, just the five of us. We served all of Dianne’s favorite foods: medium rare cheeseburgers, French fries, BBQ chips, Starburst jellybeans and absolutely NO vegetables. At our son Grant’s request, we sent balloons in “all the colors of the rainbow” sailing into the sky, and Isabel surprised us with an original song, the chorus of which went something like, “DeDe we love youuuuu, we love you more than Christmas Eve, we love you more than Halloween, we love you with glitter and lights, more than all the things that have great heights, we love you THIS much, we all miss you SOOO much.”

Daphne Bahl is a lawyer, writer and mother of three young children. A native of Memphis, she received her law degree from the University of Virginia School of Law and worked in Washington, DC, for several years before settling in her adopted hometown of Baltimore.

Writer Tafisha Edwards’ second summer dating column is served. Whether you’re dating anew or trying to keep love alive, don’t miss her on-point advice for stoking romance, Baltimore-style. SWACK, the eds.

An update: the lovely woman from Adam’s Morgan and I did not transcend the I-95 divide. One of those “if only we lived closers.”  

One of the most exciting parts of our lightning fast “getting to know you” was sharing my fairly newfound experience of Baltimore. 

As a commuter student to the University of Baltimore from Laurel in 2018, all of my Baltimore friends (and even the most casual acquaintances) were eager to share their wealth of city gems with me. Happy hours with the strongest cocktails. Where to buy cheap gas. How to get to Camden Yards on foot, bike, and train. The best farmers’ markets. Drag brunches. Bookstores and artist spaces. And of course, Christmas Village. 

In February 2020, a month before my move to Bmore, I compiled all those recommendations into a list. I was 10 apartments deep in my search and frustrated. Nothing was right. And I was buckling under the self-induced pressure: I needed to find the perfect space for me so that, eventually, I could invite a boo over.

It was naïve to move to Baltimore expecting to meet and date substantively, independently of one deadly worldwide event. Every apartment I visited, I asked myself if this was the space where I could work, write, and most importantly, love. Would the window bring enough sunlight for slow gazing? Would the shower prove large enough for two? Could that plaster on the ceiling be patched before I brought another into the space? I visited about 20 apartments in a three-month span, each time evaluating the space as if already involved with someone special. I fell into the trap of believing that as soon as my new lease was signed, I would emerge onto my new street and find myself spoiled with choice. The heavy lifting of dating and dating some more would be over. 

It had barely begun.

April 2020: I barely left the house. May 2020: I was invited to a wedding and essentially had a meltdown from fears of either contracting or infecting the beautiful couple. June 2020: I fell into despair, and in September 2020, I adopted a cat from the Baltimore Humane Society. The “X” factor for my move not only dissolved, I was sure I had made a mistake moving to a city I barely knew, only to be confined to the house. Well, not confined. I spent days in Wyman and Patterson Parks. Walked the block of Charles Village where I had found the perfect apartment.

After I was vaccinated the third time, although the pandemic was not (IS not) over, I decided the risks of contracting the virus were worth the opportunity to revisit the original reason for my move: to experience Baltimore as an adult woman. And after I contacted COVID-19 in 2021, and felt the absolute weight of my mortality, I vowed I would get out more. Masked, hand sanitizer on deck.

I spent the subsequent two years learning where one could kiss on a blue-soaked dance floor (shoutout to The Royal Blue). Or where to park when you’re running late for a date in Fells Point, wearing the wrong shoes (you’re not, so take an Uber). After a spring and summer full of romance— strolls around the block, Inner Harbor dining, and of course, Barbie tickets—here are some ideas for your next (or maybe first) summer date:

For the Picnic Lovers/Romantics

The most crucial component of this date is heavy rain. But you can’t get drenched. 

I went on a wonderful date with a woman with beautiful cheekbones in Wyman Park on the Fourth of July. I’ve been on some “picnics” before— last-minute realizations that we could eat outside or walk through a park while eating—but not like this. First of all: we had a mini-grill. charcoal, wood and fire starter, and everything. Second: we had a dog. We were anxious about the rain, whether it would roll over the city and depart. Around 5 or so, we were between showers. To a certain kind of person (me), preparation is alluring. As the color of the smoke changed from blue to white, and we drank our cocktails, the trees whispered. The wind picked up and it started to pour. 

Dating is about perseverance. I knew the odds of us getting caught in the rain were high. When the sky started leaking, my date asked me if we should leave. Absolutely not. I had spent two hours getting ready for this moment knowing the outcome. I’d waterproofed my make-up, made sure my shirt would be even more flattering wet, the same with my hair. And she worked hard, too. So, we covered our food and stood in the tree line. 

We watched couples dart through the park, teasing in the rain. The harder it poured the stiffer my resolve: we weren’t leaving. So, the blanket was a casualty. I think we lost a drink. But when the clouds split open, she turned to me, her cheeks shiny with rain. What’s a little water in exchange for a smile like that?

For the curious: we had grilled salmon, vegetables, mangoes, and strawberries.

For the Prince Lovers 

Let’s say you and your favorite Prince Lover/Concert Connoisseur are planning your next date. And for whatever reason you can’t find a show—maybe the tickets to Beyonce’s Renaissance World Tour are too pricey (they are, but then again…it’s Beyonce). Maybe you missed The Isley Brothers at AFRAM and Victoria Monet’s The Jaguar Tour is sold out.

Well, you’re in luck. Ten years after Prince released his critically acclaimed double album, Sign o’ the Times, his Jam of The Year Tour brought him to the Baltimore Arena on September 21^st, 1997. Fourteen thousand Little Red Corvette drivers, Erotic City dwellers, Insatiable, Scandalous, Sexy M.F.’s filled the arena. The footage is grainy, but Prince is eternal. Turn off the lights, turn up the volume, and wrap yourselves up in each other and the music.

For The Glamorous 

Bloom’s, located in the Hotel Ulysses in Mt. Vernon, is art-deco chic and electric pink. A bar right out of a well-designed movie—be it crime drama or comedy. No reservations (at least the last I was there), so it’ll really come down to timing. This is a cocktail bar in the truest sense (as in cocktails only), so if you’re looking to extend a date that is going well, or start the night with champagne (they have that, too), this is an option.

I celebrated my 32^nd birthday at Bloom. I wanted to drink lavishly, dress lavishly, and have all guests do the same—no fun when you’re dressed up alone. It’s a sensual space, complete with flirtatious matchbooks and cards (a discreet invitation to a room). I’m a person who loves to kiss in public spaces and also loves taking pictures—rest assured, the ambiance supports both.

Bon Voyage!

Tafisha A. Edwards a poet, cultural critic, and editor. She received her MFA in Creative Writing and Publishing Arts from the University of Baltimore. Her writings have been published in The Volta, VICE, Tidal, Cosmopolitan, Sundress Publications’ Lyric Essentials and other publications. She is the author of two chapbooks, In the Belly of the Mirror and The Bloodlet. She is the recipient of a 2022 Independent Artist Regional Award from the Maryland State Arts Council, and a 2021 Rubys Artist Grant from the Robert Deutsch Foundation. Her poetry has appeared in The Georgia Review, Apogee Journal, Poetry Northwest, Washington Square Review, Winter Tangerine and other print and online publications.

If you’ve been itching for season two of the Sex and the City reboot, here’s a better bet. Award-winning poet Tafisha Edwards dishes dating between D.C. and Baltimore. Watch for a monthly dating column by Tafisha all summer.

Absolute heartbreak: the GPS alleged it would take anywhere from 86 to 110 minutes to drive the 42 miles from Charles Village to a D.C. house party in Adams Morgan. And it didn’t matter if I took I-295 or I-95 or Route 50. And the party started at 8 p.m. on a Thursday (with a full workday on Friday). And I was already running late. My party-animal mother taught me to “never turn the lights on” at a party. (No one cared I was late.)

When I moved to Baltimore in March 2020, my DMV-based friends carried on as if I moved to the moon. Ridiculous considering, not only do I own a car, I love to drive. You might even call me a tried and tested long distance driver. In comparison to Vermont, Massachusetts, Missouri, Kentucky, Illinois, Virginia, Georgia, North and South Carolina, and New York (upstate and city), D.C. is not a long-haul distance—except when it is.

You know what you do at a party when you’re single. I mixed and mingled. I gave out my number, my TikTok, and (burner) Twitter. At a certain part in each conversation the light in my potential lover’s eyes died. Someone asked, “Is Baltimore like The Wire?” which is a (disrespectful) talking point. It was a night full of assumptions. I must have moved to buy very cheap property to then rent out as an Airbnb (no) or live cheaply and commute to hang out with DMV friends daily (no) or bide my time to move back to D.C. when “gentrification is over.” (The boldest assumption.)

No, I moved to Baltimore because of friends I made: those who already left D.C., poets who published my work and invited me to their reading series, and of course the fact I was enrolled in the University of Baltimore’s Creative Writing & Publishing Arts MFA program. Until March 2020, I split the difference between D.C. and Baltimore for work and school. I gave up my D.C. apartment in 2016 never to return. I felt the city had nothing for me. Baltimore does. Not that anyone in Adams Morgan cared.

At that party, I did find myself in a dim corner with a woman who appreciated the city. Her hand parked itself on my waist. I chugged a lot of water. We made our plans for the upcoming weekend up the highway—a movie at The Charles and a frozé at The Royal Blue. When the clock struck 2:30 a.m., instead of sliding into a morning rendezvous, I called her an Uber and she walked me to my car before I turned into a pumpkin. We kissed dizzily. And as I wound my way out of the city for the 45-minute drive back (I was speeding) I wondered if it were sustainable.

Maybe seven years ago, I drove to Brooklyn for a friend’s birthday situation. We wound up at one of those ridiculously exposed-brick, artist-frequented bars. I wound up in a dim corner with another hand on my waist. The person attached to that hand asked if I lived in Brooklyn. They were unwilling to travel to another borough, so you can imagine their face when I told them I lived in D.C. They (gently) explained the kind of relationship that merges lives, purchases property together, and blends families is really an equation: intimacy = proximity + time. Unstructured time. That’s how we learn one another. And sometimes getting to know and love someone is dragging through the streets all night from bar to bar. Or lazing away an entire Saturday. Sometimes it’s hanging on the couch on a Tuesday after work and falling asleep accidentally. Or a last-minute “wyd” text. So naturally we kissed goodbye and never spoke again.

And that is what I thought about as the Natty Boh full moon hung red in the sky as I made it into Baltimore City around 3:30 a.m. The kiss, the drive, the equation. Is it possible to fall and stay in love across those 42 miles?

Tafisha A. Edwards a poet, cultural critic, and editor. She received her MFA in Creative Writing and Publishing Arts from the University of Baltimore. Her writings have been published in The Volta, VICE, Tidal, Cosmopolitan, Sundress Publications’ Lyric Essentials and other publications. She is the author of two chapbooks, In the Belly of the Mirror and The Bloodlet. She is the recipient of a 2022 Independent Artist Regional Award from the Maryland State Arts Council, and a 2021 Rubys Artist Grant from the Robert Deutsch Foundation. Her poetry has appeared in The Georgia Review, Apogee Journal, Poetry Northwest, Washington Square Review, Winter Tangerine and other print and online publications.

Is motherhood so very different from the harrowing profession of nursing? Okay, the first doesn’t pay a salary. But each demands bravery, deep empathy, a degree of real selflessness, and patience with a capital P. Ashley Krumrine, an MFA student at the University of Baltimore, has logged many nursing hours caring for patients she will never forget. As a young mom, she strives to strike a balance between her ongoing career and busy home life. Happy Mother’s Day to female caregivers everywhere.

Critical Care, 2016

“Do they know he has an ST elevation?” I interrupt the night nurse, as she is giving my student and me her report.  

“We’ve paged the cardiac team several times, but they are holding off on taking him to the Cath Lab,” she replies.

We walk into the patient’s room, student nurse in tow, and begin to give bedside handoff. The patient is restless, wincing, grabbing at his chest, but is unable to vocalize his concerns, due to the breathing tube lodged in his throat. Chest pain, he shakily writes out on the whiteboard.

“I know,” I tell him, not liking the rhythm strip moving across the monitor. “I’m going to talk to the doctor when we are done report.”

He slams his hands down onto the bed in frustration, but we move to the next room to continue our handoff. Unsurprisingly, the poor man starts pounding away at the call light, almost immediately after we leave his room. 

Once the night nurse is relieved, we head back into our ST elevation patient’s room to answer his call light. Taking two steps into the doorway, I watch as his eyes roll back and the classic sawtooth pattern of V-tach begins scrolling across his monitor.

“PUSH THE CODE BUTTON!” I scream to my student, while feeling for a pulse. I drop the head of his bed, climb up onto the side, and begin chest compressions.

It isn’t until another nurse taps me on my shoulder to relieve my spot with compressions that I realize a dozen nurses and doctors have already entered the room, assuming their various positions for my coding patient—bagging his ET tube, pushing meds, attaching pads, and running the defibrillator.

We all work seamlessly as a team, resulting in our patient’s return of circulation.

After stabilizing him, we carefully push the patient down to the Catch Lab, a ventilator, two IV polls, and my wide-eyed and silent student nurse in tow.

NICU, 2018

“You get to snuggle babies all day!” is the comment I often get when I tell people I am a NICU nurse. Little did they know there is so much more to this job.

Cradling the four-pound babe, I walk over to the glider, careful not to tangle or pull on the various monitoring cables, oxygen tubing, or feeding tube coming from her little body. After sitting down, I raise the foot of the recliner and my extremely swollen ankles off the ground. I place the sleeping infant belly down on my chest, her tiny bum resting on my swollen baby bump.

It is crazy to think that this little girl who entered the world too early is the same gestational age and size as the one still growing in my belly. My daughter begins to kick and push from the inside, and I wonder if she knows I am holding another babe just like her.

“I bet you are done being pregnant,” my co-worker says to me.

 “Ehhh,” I reply. “I am done with these swollen ankles, but she can keep cooking for a little longer.”

Relaxing from the sway of the glider, I close my eyes, grateful for my healthy baby, and my almost full-term pregnancy.

Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, 2019

Impatiently waiting for the clock to read 0700, I change out of my scrubs, back into my street clothes, and fill up a venti-sized cup of ice chips. I anticipate the fatigue that will consume me on the drive home and know that munching on ice chips is the only thing that will keep me awake behind the wheel.

Pulling into the driveway, I have a sense of deja vu, knowing my body was on autopilot with each stop and turn I made on the way home.

I drag my tired body into the house, saying a wordless hello to my husband.

“How was work?” he asks, getting himself ready to leave for his teaching gig.

“Good,” I lie, trying to not unpack my night at the start of his day.

I sit on the couch and attach the breast pump—the calming rhythm begins to put me to sleep.

“Babe, I’m leaving,” my husband says, startling me awake. He places our 12-month-old daughter on the playmat at my feet. At this stage of her toddlerhood, gone are the morning and afternoon naps. My 12-hour shift has now turned into an 18-hour shift in which I count down the hours until I can put her to bed.

I disconnect the pump from my chest and walk shirtless over to the kitchen to start breakfast—or should I say dinner. 

After eating, I take my daughter to the playroom. Setting her up with some toys and turning on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, I lie myself down next to her on the playroom floor.

“All right, Char, mommy is just going to close her eyes for a few minutes,” I admit to the toddler. Dozing off, I pray that she doesn’t choke on anything while I am asleep.

NICU, 2019

“We just got a call. Mom delivered baby at home and is only 23 weeks,” my charge nurse tells me.

“Um, okay,” I say, heading to the warmer to prep for the babe’s arrival. No matter how many times I’ve done this, calls like this continue to fuel my adrenaline and nerves.

“I will call for Peds,” she says.

I set up suctioning, ET tube tape, and IV supplies, then EMS rolls in with a tiny, probably one-pound infant, wrapped in a silver thermal blanket.

“Baby was born 25 minutes ago. We’ve been doing compressions since we arrived, but have not gotten a pulse,” EMS says in a quick debrief.

Placing the infant under the warmer, I assume the position for chest compressions, respiratory gives the baby breaths, and Peds preps to intubate. Switching off chest compressions, I assist Peds with taping the ET tube, then begin to prepare for umbilical line insertion. Once Peds places the line, epinephrine is administered, and we continue through the motions, holding our breaths for movement or a pulse.

At some point, EMS brings in the mom on a stretcher, her pale, post-birth face filled with shock, sadness. She silently cries and watches as we attempt to resuscitate her extremely premature babe, her partner at her side.

After multiple rounds of Epi, Peds grabs her stethoscope, auscultating for a heartbeat.

“Time of death…” she says.

Wrapping the baby up, and placing them in mom’s arms, I hold back tears, only able to imagine how I would feel if I was the one on that stretcher.

School Nurse, 2020 to date

Joyful enthusiasm. The feeling I get walking into my first day of being a school
nurse. Joy that work probably won’t be life or death. Joy that I will have
a normal sleep schedule. Joy that I will have more time with my family.
Not to mention, my perfectionist side is alive, getting to decorate my desk
with all the cute sticky notes, family photos, pencil holders, and Hobby Lobby
signs.

Humbled. The feeling I get when a little boy walks into the health suite,
hair disheveled and face streaked with mud. The health assistant grabs a basin
off the shelf and ushers the little boy to the sink. I watch as she helps him
wash his face, style his hair, and brush his teeth. She then gives him a new
shirt and pants and leads him to the bathroom to change.

“He’s homeless,” she tells me, once he returns to class. “We assist him with
personal hygiene before school each day.”

Flexibility. The free feeling I get picking my daughter up from school, like a
normal parent. After surprising her at pickup, I tell her we need to run some
errands. And what are errands without a strawberry-sprinkle donut from Dunkin’?

“Mom, this isn’t the way to get to our Walmart,” my daughter says, from the
backseat of the car.

I take a minute, not knowing what to comment on—being proud that my
five-year-old knows the regular route to Walmart, or the fact that she is
already being slightly OCD like her mama.

I simply say, “Well, Charlotte, that’s the best part about life—there
are multiple ways to get to the same destination.”

Hope. Hope that this is where I am supposed to be in my current season of
life.

Last fall, librarian and creative nonfiction writer Melissa Foley-King heard rapid gunfire as she was packing her lunch for work. Life on her block would never be quite the same. Warning: This essay contains tragic violence. But it also honors friendship and community.

On a Wednesday morning in October at 8:30, I was absorbed in the routine of spreading organic peanut butter and raspberry preserves on gluten-free bread when I heard what sounded like professional fireworks. Or twenty to thirty rounds from a high-caliber weapon. I crept to the front window in my slippers and disbelief, knife still in hand, to see a man in all black, wearing a black mask, run to a nondescript black car, back over the curb, and speed up our street in reverse.

Rob had taken the day off and was sleeping in for the first time in months when the shots woke him. He ran down the stairs and I told him what I saw. We went out to the front porch and our neighbor Megan and her young daughter did the same. Her daughter saw the same person get into the same car I had seen. Few other neighbors were still home, but those who were joined us. We were all unharmed.

Rob and I went back in, through our house, and out the kitchen door to see if either of our cars were hit. Megan was leaning over her deck railing about forty feet away, looking down, and said, “I didn’t know he was back here.” A man was sitting on the bottom of her steps; I could see his maroon hoodie from behind, his hood up. Megan said, “Tyler’s been shot.”

It was my second day at a new job, I was still in pajamas, and I knew the police would be swarming our street. I didn’t dress fast enough, and within minutes a cop was at our door demanding our doorbell camera footage, asking if we rent or own our home, and telling us we couldn’t leave their crime scene. Tyler was loaded onto a stretcher in our driveway, the fence between our yard and Megan’s flattened. He was conscious and talking, the EMTs explaining to him what they were doing while they administered aid. When the ambulance was gone, a single cruiser blocked our driveway and the officer stood by it with his arms folded, facing our house, while other cops trampled my flower beds and vegetable gardens, and overturned our trashcans, looking for evidence. 

I called the trainer at my new job to say I would be late as I sat in my running car, a cop repeatedly leaning into my window, again demanding my identification and doorbell camera footage, telling me I couldn’t leave his crime scene. Rob, normally quiet and cool, a former EMT and firefighter, made it clear that they couldn’t have anything we could provide until they let me out of the driveway. They refused while my panic increased, my new job hanging in the balance. 

Finally, realizing we wouldn’t cooperate, the cop in charge moved the cruiser. He told me to go left, where a different cop wouldn’t let me through. I turned around to go in the other direction, where a third cop yelled to the original cop, who told him to let me out. The third cop slowly and begrudgingly moved the yellow tape just enough for my car to fit. I drove to work, shaky but focused on getting safely to the library where I was training. I checked in with Rob throughout the day, asking for updates and asking if he could tell how Megan was holding up. He said there were shell casings all over our front yard and porch steps, and a bullet hole in Megan’s mailbox. It went in one side and made a clean exit out the other. 

Tyler didn’t make it. He was shot in a femoral artery and–despite eleven pints of blood–died at the hospital. I felt like a jerk for how I had left that morning while a man was fatally injured.

When I got home that night, Megan was on her back deck, feeding her dog, and she seemed steady. She asked if I was okay and she told me Tyler was her nephew; she had been letting him stay with her, against her better judgment. I told her that, as insensitive as it sounded, I was grateful it wasn’t one of her sons. She thanked me for saying that and agreed. Still, I remembered, Tyler was someone’s son.

Another neighbor came home that night, accessed camera footage from the house across the street from ours, and sent it to me. It was chilling to see grainy footage of Tyler silently walking in front of our house with a white grocery bag in his hand, turning to look behind him, and starting to run as not one but two men ran after him, shooting, breaking the silence with splintering pops. One of them had already crossed the street and gotten in the car before I looked out the window. Another neighbor across the street posted on our neighborhood Facebook page that a bullet had entered her living room window after she had left for work and her oldest daughter was home alone.

I know this was an isolated incident and drug related, so I still don’t feel unsafe in my neighborhood. I often walk to the library branch where I work now, and I don’t worry about anything other than loose dogs. I am, however, heartbroken. Megan and her family were already vilified by some of our neighbors for not making repairs to her porch steps or weeding her garden, for having “too many” people living in her house. It sounded hollow when I told Megan to let us know if she needed anything, but I meant it. Other neighbors just talk about wanting to move away.

Two nights later, Rob and I had an outdoor movie night with our trivia team; a thing we do occasionally where we roast marshmallows over a little bonfire and project a movie onto our garage doors. While hanging out with our friends, we ate snacks, focused on keeping the fire going, and didn’t think twice about the shooting. When we were cleaning up, though, putting away chairs and waiting for the embers to burn out, Rob found a gnarled piece of lead: a spent bullet in our driveway. 

The cops had missed it.

Melissa Foley-King is a nostalgist, librarian, and MFA candidate in the Creative Writing & Publishing Arts program at University of Baltimore. Writing is among one of the many things she enjoys, which include, but are not limited to, quilting, crocheting, gardening, playing bass and ukulele, going to punk shows, making miniatures, and overcommitting. Melissa lives in Baltimore with her husband and her pets.

In her late 50s–even though she knew she couldn’t dance particularly well–writer Ann Zuccardy threw herself into pole dancing. She survived to tell this story.

I am semi-famous in small circles for my lack of rhythm and stiff dance moves.  

One would think I might have learned some dance skills from my parents. They took ballroom dancing, and then later in the 1970s, much to my then-teenage horror, disco lessons. They’d clear out the living room and put the Saturday Night Fever album on their portable record player and swirl and twirl. I’d pretend throw-up, but I secretly thought it was beautiful. And it was. All that polyester. All that twirling. I would give anything to see them disco dance again.

But no, dancing was not one of my skills…unless there was tequila involved. And tequila only made me “think” I could dance. I won’t even do the electric slide at a wedding. I simply roll my eyes from the sidelines.  

So why, for the love of God, would I subject myself to pole dancing in my late 50s? You know, all the blah-blah-blah about breaking out of comfort zones? I pontificate about it frequently.  

I had just moved to Baltimore, part-time, in 2017. I didn’t know a soul. Groupon was my source for weird and wonderful local things, and I scored a deal for a pole dancing class. No one would know me here.  Maybe I could start fresh, reinvent my persona. Maybe I could become an elderly pole dance athlete. Given my unnatural sense of rhythm, limber menopausal body, and brain injury history, this seemed a perfectly logical thing to do.  

I told myself that I would give pole dance lessons one single try. If the class was full of yoga Barbies, I would be out of there, pronto. The first class I attended was a chair dancing class. I thought it might be safer to keep my feet on the ground and my butt in a chair on my first go. I was delighted to find women of all shapes, sizes, colors, ages, and clothing combinations when I arrived. Not one yoga Barbie in sight!  

Whew.  

Class began.  

“Now, straddle Stefan, and flip your hair,” the instructor directed. Say what? Straddle who? What had I gotten myself into? I mastered my favorite pole dancer’s move, the hair flip, quickly, but I was a little uncomfortable about straddling a stranger. It only took me two classes before I learned that Stefan is the Ikea name for a black hardback chair.  

After mastering the Stefan straddle, I graduated to the pole. Sadly, it didn’t have a sexy Ikea name. My go-to move when I couldn’t get my feet off the ground for more than two seconds—you guessed it—my signature move, the hair flip. I quickly mastered the pole walk and the various grips, but when it came to aerial moves, I knew they would probably never happen. Even with shaving cream (yes, pole dancers use shaving cream to help make the pole a little sticky for a better grip), I simply couldn’t hurl my body into space for more than five seconds before gravity engaged my butt…on the floor.  

Are you wondering about the shoes? I think it may not be politically correct to call them stripper shoes, but I don’t know what else to call them, so stripper shoes they are. Some women wore them; some didn’t. There was no pressure either way. But here I was, a recovering Catholic, stiff preppy white girl from Connecticut, who always did the opposite of what was expected, so I HAD TO HAVE THE SHOES!  I bought a pair of pink gold platforms with a six-inch heel. Wearing them, I was 6’2” and I teetered like a protoplasmic Jenga tower. Walking in them was one thing, but dancing in them? I whispered a silent prayer that I would not break my nose or crack my sternum as I had the previous year in a bicycle accident. And I made sure my will and health insurance were up to date.  

I was not the oldest person there, as I had feared I would be. There was one woman who was 70.  I loved watching her. She could do some aerial moves. She wore thigh-high black boots with a stiletto heel. She was graceful and beautiful inside and out. We became friends. “Oh yes,” I thought, “I want to grow old like that.” I want to be the elderly pole dancer or the senior citizen in a rubber bathing cap at the pool who swims effortless lap after lap. (I had goals.)

Pole dance achievements were rewarded with colorful garters. I never earned one. Think about martial arts and the colored belts one can earn as one advances. The garter system is similar. I have no idea what the color progression was. I would have killed for a garter, but I never even made it to the first level. Now if there was a granny panties level, I might have been a contender, but no such luck.  

I did get something almost as cool as a garter. 

This was perhaps the most inclusive fitness experience I’d ever had. All women, all supportive, no nonsense. No one laughed at me, but I laughed at myself often. 

I found a new sense of sensuality. I found my inner seductress in a safe place to let her loose without fear of judgment. I was taught, all my life, to tamp that part of myself down. The never-ending message of my youth was that you couldn’t be sensual AND smart.  

Pole dancing class encouraged me to contemplate the word sensual. So many confuse it with sexy. No, no, no! Sensual is about the senses; reveling in all of them, without self-conscious apologies. Sensual is human. It’s what we were created to do; to enjoy all that life has for us, using all of our senses.  

When I speak to students or present a keynote, I talk about how growing our brains and keeping them healthy for a lifetime requires us to try new and unusual things and to embrace our awkwardness with compassionate laughter. My pole dancing skills are still rudimentary and probably always will be, but the experience of laughing, connecting, and engaging my inner sensual goddess (goofy flaws and all) follows me everywhere I go.  

I’m still a lousy dancer, but I’m a more compassionate and open writer, teacher, mother, student, and daughter.  

Ann Zuccardy is a technical writer for the DoD, adjunct professor of English, brain injury survivor, notoriously awkward dancer, and keynote speaker with two TEDx talks. She began her MFA in memoir at the University of Baltimore in 2022 at 60. Ann’s work appears in Adelaide Literary Journal, Spry Literary Journal, Press Pause Moments: Essays about Life Transitions by Women Writers,  In Between Spaces: An Anthology of Disabled Writers and in many blogs and podcasts. Ann splits her time between Baltimore and her house in rural northern Vermont where she hopes to hold writing retreats after she “retires.”

Writer Will Richardson remembers a recent Halloween adventure, more frightening for his and his husband’s journey into MAGA territory than any spooky costumes at hand.

“Is the fanny pack too much?” Katie asks as she pushes her oversized blazer aside to position the black and neon pack around her waist.

“Can a fanny pack ever be too much?” I counter. I rifle through the open Amazon box of ’80s nostalgia accessories. “Oh, jelly bracelets! I remember those!” I exclaim. I look for pansexual pride colors—yellow, cyan, and bright pink—but settle on trans pride—white, pale pink, and baby blue—and slip them on my wrist.

“Yes, or no?” Steve has on a pair of neon orange and green sunglasses. 

“Ha! Those are amazing.” I answer.

“Max Headroom!” someone offers. Christian rushes past me to check his hairdo in the mirror, then returns to the kitchen, elated. 

“Flock of Seagulls!” I declare. 

“Yes! Exactly!” Christian says gratefully. “See—he remembers!” pointing me out to Katie, his wife. We take turns saying what year we graduated from high school; Christian’s the oldest (1994), I’m second (1997). My husband, Josh, is the baby (2004).

The other couples had the foresight to order costume kits online; Josh and I threw together costumes from our wardrobes. Josh’s preppy guy in his vintage letterman sweater and white high-top sneakers is an excellent foil to my rebellious kid from The Breakfast Club. White long-sleeved T under red-and-black plaid flannel with the sleeves roughly cut off, dark jeans with the cuffs shoved into the top of clunky, black leather, lace-up boots. He is the “criminal,” the one who makes out with the popular, uptight girl and walks away triumphantly across the football field in the iconic final scene. The movie ends with his voice reading the essay the self-named Breakfast Club wrote for the teacher who supervised detention, “You see us as you want to see us, in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions.”

“What’s the fundraiser for again, exactly?” Josh asks the group. 

“Arts council,” Katie answers. “For here in Queen Anne’s County.”

Katie and Christian asked us last week if we wanted to join them for a 1980s themed fundraiser on Kent Island, along with another couple, Steve and Melissa. I love a good theme party and any chance to dress up in a silly costume. And we love these friends and don’t see them enough, so we agreed. 

The day of the party, Josh brings up the obvious; this is going to be a very straight, white event. I am often oblivious to the obvious, but realize he is right. We will be in MAGA country. Fuck. 

“Well, if we’re gonna get hated-crimed, bring it on,” he says. I mime my new yellow belt kung fu moves, tight fists up near my face, then two quick jabs.  

“Bring it on,” I repeat.

I’ve never been in a fight. 

Before the group piles into two cars, I slip on a pride bracelet. It matches ones we gave to our groomsmates at our wedding rehearsal dinner four months ago. As we drive into the parking lot, Katie glances inside the hall.

“No one else is dressed up!” she laments. The six of us gather in the lot and they start to fuss about overdoing their costumes. 

“Hey,” I declare, “we look fabulous. We look awesome and feel awesome. That’s all that matters.” (I am trying to convince myself.)

“Just own it. We are the party,” Josh adds.

As we walk into the volunteer fire department’s event hall, one glance tells me Josh’s earlier assessment was right. Deflated and wary, I wonder how out I am willing to be here. I slip my pride bracelet off and shove it into my jeans pocket. I leave the trans-pride jelly bracelets. No one here knows what that means anyway. Josh is uncomfortable, anxious, questioning our decision to come. I glance around for any indication we aren’t the only ones. I relax a little at seeing a 50-something woman dressed ridiculously in a rainbow toile skirt and pigtails tied up with neon scrunchies. 

“You look amazing,” I say and wave my hand to indicate her outfit. She beams and points out her adult daughter in a DIY Garbage Pail Kids costume. 

“You remember Garbage Pail Kids?” she asks me cheerfully. 

“Oh, yeah,” I assure her. I remember those subversive collectible cards. Scrunchie Mom understands being different. She understands choosing to be herself, whatever the popular girls say.

On the way to the appetizer table, I relax a little and pull my pride bracelet back out of my pocket. I slip it onto my right wrist, next to the jelly bracelets. They will be my talisman, my amulet of protection. 

I down a couple small pours of local beer, then Josh brings me a shot of whiskey to wash down the appetizers. He and I entertain each other with our favorite people-watching game. I nod my head toward a couple. He’s wearing jams, and she’s looking fantastic in a bright French cut leotard, exercise tights, and leg warmers. 

“He feels inadequate in bed, so makes up for it by paying for all his wife’s plastic surgery.”

Josh nods to an octogenarian behind me. “Grandma is secretly kinky. She has a sex dungeon in her basement.”

“They sleep in separate bedrooms,” I decide about a couple two tables away. 

“Think we have more sex than anyone here?” Josh asks.

“Oh, for sure. Easily.”

We smile at each other and relax a bit more.

The lead singer invites people to come up and dance and passes out rainbow-lighted foam batons. I accept one from a tablemate and weave through the tables to the tiny dance space in front of the band. 

“Cel-ebrate good times, come on!” the singer belts as I jump up and down in a small group of women. I’m not drunk enough for this. When the song ends, I head back to the assigned table. The singer invites “only women whose men really, truly love them” to dance to a slow love song. “Come on, guys! Bring your lady up to show her you really love her.”

“Which one of us is the woman?” I loudly ask Josh. He smiles. I kiss his cheek. We stay seated. I think back to our first dance at the wedding, when I pretended to be confused about which one of us would lead, before we both broke into a hip-hop routine my friend choreographed for us. What’s a man gotta do? 

After sipping another drink, Josh declares he needs to pee.

“Me, too,” I offer.

Going to the restroom together isn’t usually a guy thing, but it’s safer this way. We work our way past the silent auction baskets, and I point out the ones advertised as men’s (cigars, bourbon, camouflage) and women’s (soaps, wine, pastels). I know Josh understands my silent commentary about how needlessly gendered everything is. 

“No gender-neutral bathroom. I checked earlier,” Josh informs me.

As we enter the men’s room, I subtly scan the situation and am relieved that we have it to ourselves. Josh conducts his own assessment with military precision and speed. Muscle memory. We pass the empty urinals and head to the two stalls. Keeping one ear out for the swing of the door and footsteps, I chat with Josh through the stall wall. I quickly learned that this normal women’s room behavior is a men’s room faux pas. Where women make eye contact, smile, make friendly chitchat with strangers, men staunchly avoid all of it. Keep your head down, do your business, get out. (Josh and I still like to chat, and when it’s the two of us, we can.) Once I realized my changing appearance frightened women, I switched to the men’s, where no one looks closely anyway.  

We rejoin our group and head outside for fresh air and bourbon. We chat contentedly as we sip from our plastic cups and the band finishes their first set. Now happily drunk, I hear Whitney’s voice from the speakers. She just wants to dance with somebody, and I heed her siren call, dragging Josh inside with me. I jump and slide and thrust my hip sharply left to feel the heat with somebody. I call the lyrics into the air with my T-buzzed voice slightly off tune; the dance floor is the only place I sing. 

A woman maybe 10 years my senior comes to dance with me. We smile and sway our hips to the beat. I know she reads me as safe. Her husband could be sitting two yards away and not feel threatened by me. I smile and dance to make her feel sexy, to feel young again, to feel free in her little black dress. I don’t count as a man. Not that kind of man. 

If only she knew. 

As Josh and I dance to the band’s second set, I notice the unfriendly glance from the dude dressed in a Miami Vice suit and gold chain necklace. I notice the uncomfortable, downcast face of the bass guitar player three feet away. He can’t even look at us. I dance harder. Josh matches my energy. I drape my arms around his shoulders, and we smile joyfully at each other. He takes off his sweater to dance in his T-shirt. Have you seen Josh’s biceps? Let Miami Vice try. 

A couple women I hadn’t noticed before dance near the front with us. “I’m glad someone here can actually dance!” the taller one yells over the music. I laugh and pump my feet to the beat as a “thank you.” She rewards me with a “Yeeeesssss!” I bop a balloon into the air for the crowd to bounce around like a beach ball. 

The band plays another slow song, and I pull Josh in. I lead, my right hand on his back, my left holding his. I whisper in his ear and kiss his cheek. Over his shoulder, I see a seated, gray-haired gentleman smile contentedly in our direction.

As the night winds down, the emcee calls, “Katie and Christian, Melissa and Steve, come to the front!” They’ve won the costume contest and join us up front to victoriously claim their gift bags, then head off to examine any silent auction wins. As I leave the dance floor, a smiling older woman stops me and gestures for a hug; I apologize for my sweatiness while she thanks me for being there and supporting the arts. “Really, I’m so glad you’re here,” she beams. I know she means “guys like you” and I feel her welcoming in my bones.  

Josh and I head to the parking lot to cool down. I’m so sweaty from dancing that I take off my cut-off flannel shirt and long-sleeved white T and drop them carelessly to the asphalt. Josh fusses at me for being shirtless and I love him for it but am not about to put a sweat-soaked shirt back on. My chest hair mostly hides my scars anyway. 

“Aren’t you cold?” the woman who complimented my dancing calls to us across the small lot. 

“Do you guys need a ride?” her friend asks.  

“Nah, I’m always too hot.” And use any excuse to be shirtless now that I can.

“We’re good, thanks,” Josh answers guardedly. “We’re just waiting for our friends.” The women approach, not exactly sober themselves. 

“I just have to say,” one begins. “It’s so great to see you two here tonight. Where do you live?”

“Glen Burnie,” I answer. 

“Oh! That’s gotta be worse than here!”  

“Well, we have been hate-crimed,” I say flippantly at the same time Josh deflects, “It’s not so bad.”

“Listen,” the taller woman continues breathlessly. “My son came out when he was 11, and we live here, and I was so scared for him, but he’s 17 now and doing great and he hasn’t been bullied at school and we are so lucky. Are you on Facebook? Can we be friends? Do you want to come to Thanksgiving with us? I’m serious. Come have Thanksgiving with us.”

“It’s just so great to see a couple like you,” her friend beams as Josh puts his name into her phone. 

Josh and I exchange a knowing smile. 

Our daily survival demands no missteps as we dance out and in, in and out of the closet, silently calculating our chances. In the right spaces, our spaces, we reveal our white-pink-and-blue selves. Tonight, though, we read as two boys in love—fully true, if not the full truth.

Will Richardson (he/they) is an LGBTQ health researcher and activist; dad; and queer, transgender man. He has been published in Welter Online. He lives near Baltimore with his husband, and keeps dancing, no matter who is watching.

Writer Patrice Hutton used to dance ballet all the time–as a kid–but when she gets the call to play a small part in The Nutcracker, it’s been a few years. Enjoy our last-minute Christmas gift to you, a traipse through the most magical stage show the holiday allows. (Patrice founded Writers in Baltimore Schools, by the way, a nonprofit that provides literary development to low-income students.)

Sunday (my first rehearsal)

In a late 2022 plot twist, I get invited to Clara’s party again. That is, I’m making a Nutcracker comeback (in my mid-30s). It’s unheard of to be cast the week before the show, especially when it’s been 19 years since your last production. My sister’s DC-based company needs guests for the party scene. So when the role comes up, I take it before I can decide not to. Before I can remember that my work life Decembers are a crunch of year-end non-profit wrap-up–evaluations, holiday cards, and fundraising. But mostly before I can actually remember what it feels like to perform.

I’ve been taught a dance with simple choreography set to a familiar beat, but the soutenus and chaîne turns leave me dizzy and stumbling out of steps. I’m hoping performing feels better than this rehearsal does. As a figure skater, I’ve been working on a dance called the Canasta Tango, and I’m struck by how much steadier I feel on ice than I do this floor.

As a Party Parent, I am assigned three daughters (Party Children). One year as a Party Child myself, my actual parents played stage parents to my sister and me. Another year, I had cool, new parents. This makes me wonder what I need to do to qualify as a Cool Party Mom.

“You’re my mom. For now. Do you have any dogs?” my tiniest girl asks. Oh child. This is a sore subject because I don’t quite know why I don’t have a dog.

“I love dogs. I walk my friends’ dogs,” I say.

“I have five,” she beams.

“Bye, Mom!” another daughter grins at me on her way out.

This 9-year-old wore glasses throughout rehearsal, and even though it is never okay to wear glasses in a ballet, this is a laid-back production. Maybe—like mother, like daughter—I can be the Party Parent who wears glasses. Yet I find I’m too embarrassed to ask anyone–my sister included–if glasses might possibly be okay.

Monday & Tuesday (awaiting my next rehearsal)

My sister informs me that both performances have sold out. Thank goodness–a concrete excuse to keep my inquiring friends away. Friends only know about the show if I’ve pulled out the old “I can’t, I have rehearsal” line to decline plans. Nobody needs to see my rusty dancing and rustier acting.

When I tell my mom I’m going to be in The Nutcracker, she asks, “Were you invited?” And when I ask my dad if he’s seen the news on the group text, he says, “Oh, I thought you were joking.” It’s been that long since I’ve performed. My last real show was a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Peabody my freshman year of college.

My last attempt to learn and perform choreography occurred in a fox costume in a field in Kansas six years back. It was Christmas Eve morning, and I’d been on a party bus the night before. A childhood ballet friend voluntold my sister and me that we were to dance in her short film, “Last Chance to Dance.” Four of us learned the dance. One–the non-dancer–was cut before filming. And bless him for being the weak link because I was next on the chopping block. In the film’s dance number, I’m consistently a half beat behind my prey. (Prey = the Gunnison sage-grouse, for whom we made the film. December 2016 was a vulnerable time for us all, human and grouse.)

So, my parents can’t be blamed for thinking I’m joking. And when they put in their time as Party Parents–two years for my mom, five for my dad–they rehearsed weekly, September through December. My shortcut to the stage is unfathomable to all.

Wednesday (second rehearsal)

I con my glasses-wearing party child to ask the glasses question for me. “Do you get to wear those in the performance?” I ask. I think she might know the answer. She doesn’t, so she runs up to the director and asks. “Let me think about it,” I hear the director tell her.

My tiniest party child again asks if I have a dog. Despite browsing BARCS listings near daily since Sunday, I do not. I show her pictures of my friend’s Great Danes, and she draws another child near to bask in their majesty. They ask me for snacks, which I, too, am on the prowl for. I’ve been contemplating ordering Uber Eats to rehearsal (Cool Mom move?). The child asks me if orange peels are edible, and feeling like I’m in loco parentis, I stick with a simple “no.”

Thursday (tech rehearsal)

I’m waiting in the wings in a cherry-colored gown. I spot my sister across the stage, ready to assess if it was a good idea to let her big sister infiltrate Nutcracker. Back in the day, I would have thought nothing of her presence. But since then, she’s danced with companies in San Diego, San Francisco, Boston, and now DC. This is her twenty-fourth season of Nutcracker. I’m usually the one watching her.

“Do you know our music?” my kids whisper. They’re the first to enter after the overture ends. “Um, yeah,” I lie. Mom’s on it. I’ve been so focused on learning and retaining my dance that I’ve forgotten there’s so much else you need to remember for the twenty minutes of party scene. It turns out I don’t remember any of the cues: when we present our children with presents, when we assemble for lighting of the tree, or (yikes) even when our dance starts. Our children are in the way as our music starts, so we rush our steps to make up time we’ve lost. I turn right, left, right, left—by the end, I’m so I dizzy I wonder how I used to make it through daily ballet class.

Friday (dress rehearsal)

In my days as a party child, my coil-tight ringlets came into being with gel and hairspray before and after a night in foam rollers. Now, after a day of working remotely from DC, I have one hour before dress rehearsal to transform into a Victorian socialite. After disappointing curling iron attempts, I twist the hot curls and pin them into coils on my head. At the theater, I remove the coils just before we take the stage. Curl success! “Your hair looks different,” a child says. “But it looks good.” My glasses are still on, as are my stage daughter’s. We go to the party that way. We dance that way. The Nutcracker doll still comes to life. Clara still makes it to the Land of Sweets.

Saturday (opening night)

My day starts with an extra dose of Nutcracker. I tag along to watch my sister perform the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” for her other company’s performance in Columbia. After the show, every preschool-aged dancer wants a picture with her.

At the theater that night in DC, I want a picture with my party children. We–the Red Family–pose, daughters gathered in front of my outstretched, evening-gloved arms. I catch the image in the mirror, and suddenly it feels very real. I’m about to take the stage. It’s opening night.

And then I’m back at my favorite party of the season. My dear children curtsy to the Stalbaums, and I greet Mrs. Stahlbaum, who looks ravishing in green. She pours us a delightful champagne, and we watch our children play. The girls open their gifts and are delighted with their new dolls. And after the children dance, we mothers can’t help but dance ourselves. I twirl, keeping time with my friends, and we fan into a pinwheel, parading with arms touching in the center. I chaîne–making a string of tight turns–and then chaîne back the other way. My cheeks are flush after Mrs. Stalhbaum leads our romp, and I catch my breath as we pass a candle to light the tree. The mysterious Drosselmeyer appears, bringing with him life-size mechanical dolls. Heavens! My silly girls get too close for my liking. And then poor Clara’s new nutcracker doll is broken by her pesky little sister. My girls and I watch Drosselmeyer work his magic repairing the doll. And then I must whisk my girls home to bed, grateful for another Christmas Eve at the Stalbaums.

Sunday (final show)

Another performance, another romp at the Stahlbaums in my cherry-colored gown. My ringlets bounce and my pearls fly as I dance for a final time. I forget a step, which I only realize as the other dancers chaîne past me while I turn in place. By the time I catch up, their chaînes are coming back in the other direction. Maybe I’ll remember this mistake twenty-eight years later, like I still remember the mistake I made in my Nutcracker debut as a mouse. But I keep going. The Nutcracker doll still comes to life. Clara still makes it to the Land of Sweets. 

“You were great!” my sister hugs me.

Growing up, the final Sunday of Nutcracker was bittersweet. We’d practically lived in the theater since Wednesday, and now we faced our last show. But we had a spring performance to look forward to. 

Now I have no idea when my next ballet will be, but participating in this Nutcracker has been a gift come from thin air. For twenty-minute chunks, I was no longer a non-profit professional with PetFinder tabs open. I was a guest at a glorious party; I was but one dancer that came together to bring an elaborate show to life. For me, the best seat in the house remains standing in the wings–that is, watching before and after I chaperon my party children to the Stalbaums’ much-anticipated fete, before and after I dance.

Baltimore-based poet Elizabeth Hazen reflects on the “complicated gift” of nostalgia.

When I am overwhelmed with adult life, I think of childhood days home from school with a cold, cozy in bed. My mother moves the living room TV into my room, and I spend hours watching syndicated episodes of I Dream of Jeannie and Bewitched and reading Sweet Valley High. My mother brings me snacks, presses her palm to my forehead, and leaves my door open a crack so I can call her if I need anything. With my father at work and my brother at school, I bask in the rare light of her focus. My memory stops before the boredom of the afternoon, when the TV switches to talk shows and soap operas and my brother barges back home with my schoolwork, leaving me to face the prospect of tomorrow.

The power to edit separates memory from lived experience, but it does not mute the pangs of intense longing. Saturday mornings, sprawled on the shag carpet with my brother, watching He-Man and The Smurfs and Jem, shoveling cereal into my mouth. My dogged labors throughout secondary school, fueled by my belief that hard work alone ensures success. My first love and our first kiss in the chill air outside a movie theater that no longer exists. The lavender scent of my infant son’s neck as I rock him in the semi-dark. 

I can’t repeat the past, but I can remember and bask in reimagining, which is mercifully free from the sharp edges and shadows I would surely encounter if I could, in fact, go back. I can scroll through photos on my phone and be transported to last summer, cruising west on old Route 66 with my son, a teenager now, just the two of us, music blaring, red rock formations, and brilliant desert sky surrounding us. I can listen to a Bowie song, and my brother is instantly beside me. I can catch the scent of irises, and I am in my childhood backyard, swaying on a tire swing and singing “Walk Like an Egyptian” to myself.

Our capacity to remember past happiness, to experience nostalgia, is a complicated gift. The term comes from two Greek words: nostos and algos—a longing to return home and the pain that goes along with this longing. And therein lies the rub: with any remembered pleasure comes a terrible sense of loss: we can’t repeat the past, no matter how vivid it returns to us in our minds; we are homesick for places that no longer exist, for people who are not coming back, for selves we cannot be again. 

After dinner, my fifteen-year-old son wants to see pictures of his cat, Ferdinand, as a kitten. How old is he now? Our calculations lead us to conclude that he is well into middle age—at least nine or ten. My son can hardly believe it! How terribly fast time passes, and without warning. And what delight I see in his face—no longer a child but still so heartbreakingly young—as he scrolls through images of Ferdinand, though the true delight seems to come from the images of himself—that person he once was—the terrible haircuts, the mismatched and ill-fitting outfits, the evocative combination of familiarity and distance. I view the pictures of myself as a young mother with the same hesitant affection. Who is that woman—or really, who is that girl? What is she thinking? Does she already know that her marriage is ending? Is she worrying about money or the baby weight she still carries? Has she had her first drink of the day? Some things are better left behind, but I wish I could go back to remind that girl how soon her child will grow out of her arms, and to caution her against the impulse toward oblivion.

My son waxes nostalgic about the days before he felt stress over school and friends and the fleeting nature of time. He looks at class pictures in which he is maskless and smiling. I will never be happy like that again, he tells me. 

Initially, nostalgia was considered a disorder, a form of melancholy, and indeed, dwelling too long in the past can make any of us feel depressed. The term was coined in the seventeenth century by Dr. Johannes Hoffer, a Swiss military doctor who diagnosed mercenaries fighting battles far from home. 

My son’s nostalgia kick lasts for days. He asks if we can watch The Pink Panther, Scooby-Doo. We were just the two of us when we first watched these episodes, before I married my now-husband and we moved in with him and his children. We sat in the downstairs of the house that was perfect for just-us, the house that was mine, snuggled under comforters, he with the cat curled on his lap, letting me hold them both. I sit with him, my heart hurting from so much past coming back to me. 

My son marvels at the cruelty of time, tells me how much he hates the way it moves so fast, the way some days are pure drudgery and all excitement and joy seem relegated to the past. What can I say to him but that there will surely be more excitement and more joy, that we all feel hopeless sometimes, that feelings—good and bad—will pass? I bite my tongue before noting that those new thrills will also pass too soon, that they will be interspersed with losses and disappointments, that human nature dictates we can’t help but revise as we look back.

Today, psychologists argue that nostalgia lifts our moods, gives us a sense of connection to the past and meaning in the present, helps us break free from brooding over loss. So long as we don’t lose ourselves in reminiscing about the past, or fixate on the loss of the past itself, memories of happy times serve us well—and after the stress and doubt of these past few years, it seems we are all more than ready to reflect on “simpler times.” Even if we can’t repeat the past, we surely can visit it in our imaginations.

I tell my son I miss those early days, too, though I say nothing about the demons I have tried to leave behind. I no longer drink, my marriage is solid, and I am beginning to acknowledge my limitations and even, some days, my strengths. I say nothing about what happens as we age, the thrill of firsts diminishing: no more first kisses, first homes, first loves, firstborns. I say nothing about the acceleration of time the older you get, the way years pass now as months once did, the way I grew older before I had time to grow up. 

I tell him time is a river. We must let the current carry us, taking in what we can. To fight the current invites injury. Do what the experts say: lie on your back, protect your head, go with the flow, breathe.

Even as I write this, my phone dings with a New York Times article about nostalgia and our current inclination for bygone things. Last week, I heard a radio story about the resurgence of pop-punk music, manifesting in the When We Were Young festival. This year’s Super Bowl ads also played to our hunger for the past: Jim Carrey as The Cable Guy, Mike Myers as Austin Powers, Steve Buscemi in a bowling alley as in The Big Lebowski. And the halftime show itself was a fabulously joyful return to the late 90s, the now middle-aged artists bringing their A games to play hit songs from decades ago. And what about all the TV reboots? Just Like That (Sex and the City), Bel-Air (The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air), Twin Peaks: The Return (Twin Peaks), and more—not to mention numerous original series from the 90s and 00s that have been streaming in vast numbers. The future brims with uncertainty and violence and harsh colors; it is no surprise that we prefer looking back. 

Nostalgia is one way we cope with our powerlessness over time. That rushing river, that unidirectional force, that measure of everything we do and every version of self. Time is indifferent to us, but we are entirely in service to it. So what do I tell my son? You can’t fight time. You can’t alter its pace or make a case for why you need more of it. You can’t know how much you have. You can only move with it, learn from it, try to make peace with it. 

In my inbox, I find the weekly message from Shutterfly: “Your memories from X number of years ago this week.” One click and there is my son, toothless and grinning, face smeared with sweet potato puree. There is a house I no longer inhabit, friends I no longer know, a self I no longer know, a life to which I can never return. The link, “Relive this memory,” a tempting lie. 

If I really think about it, though, I must acknowledge the angst and uncertainty of my twenties and thirties, the self-destructive patterns I did not yet recognize, the insecurities that stifled my voice. My nostalgia fades ultimately into more honest reflection on the past, and I fix on what might be a lesson in all this looking back: one day, I will long for the moment I am in right now. I remind myself to pay attention, to savor what I can.

Sometimes I think that, through memory, we build armor, adding layer upon layer like expanding Russian dolls. I see my son’s face hardening, his defenses stronger, and his actions more careful and strategic than they were even a month ago. Sometimes I think the opposite; memory strips us away, like birch bark in a storm, or onion skin, revealing more vulnerable interiors. His face as the Pink Panther dumps laundry soap into the machine, the way his voice changes when he exclaims over pictures of the cat. Likely, it is both, some memories serving to strengthen us and others allowing us to let down our guards and become, if only for a moment, who we once were. 

There is a certain slant of light this time of year, not quite spring but beginning to thaw, when the bare trees almost shimmer, as if the tight beginnings of buds were filled with gold. I remember mothering my young son less in image than in sensation, like the half-recollection of a pleasant dream—the ache in my breasts, the giddy fatigue, the scent of his scalp, the heft of him. I can’t repeat the past. He can’t either. None of us can. I check my inbox. I drink tea and practice breathing. I watch the world through the window, the light always shifting, but this slant of light I carry with me, and inside it that impossible hope, that green light across the bay, that beautiful, remembered lie that the past is ours to edit, that time is something we can hold, that to repeat our rosy versions of the past, we need only close our eyes. 

Elizabeth Hazen is a poet and essayist. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Epoch, Best American Poetry, American Literary Review, Shenandoah, Southwest Review, and other journals. She has published two collections of poetry with Alan Squire Publishing, Chaos Theories (2016) and Girls Like Us (2020). She lives in Baltimore with her family. This essay was originally published in Coachella Review.