I'm writing this to myself. Perhaps I will make it a poetry page, but for the most part I just want to get the memory down on paper, not that it will ever leave me.

I recorded a Midler tune last month called "My Mother's Eyes". I do these little computer recordings quite often, probably to prove to myself I can still sing halfway decent. In any event, I found this one rather difficult. It was an easy song to sing, but I kept breaking down halfway through (crying is so unprofessional). Took me 5 hours to get it right. It's a chilling song, and I hated the way I sang the last line. It seemed so harsh, but it was too late to re-do and I was too drained to try. It was probably the easiest, yet the most difficult song I have ever sung.

A few nights later I had dinner with my friend Suzanne. We sat on the patio over looking the art district and drank wine. Suzanne is a psychologist and very laid back, unlike myself. We were discussing men, relationships and life in general when...

She looked at me quietly and said, "You have always had men who want you and are seriously interested in you, but you always find a reason to keep them emotionally at bay, and you have done this all the years I have known you". I laughed and told her she was ridiculous.

Then I spoke of an event that happened in my life when I was a small child, a memory that has always been very vivid to me. I had never discussed it before, and it was kind of an after-thought to whatever it was we were discussing at that moment. I casually spoke of a time when I was perhaps 4 or 5 years old. It was afternoon, and I remembered walking down the hall to my parents bedroom. The door was ajar and as I stood there peering in, I saw my mother sitting on the floor crying. She had 2 shoeboxes in front of her filled with love letters from my father, written to her when he was in France during the war. She was tearing them up one by one, as she sobbed.

It's odd. After all these many years I myself, for some reason, have a shoebox filled with her letters to him during that time (which I cherish). Anyway, I remembered that I stood crying in the doorway when my mother looked up, horrified. She immediately swept me up and hugged me, and that's where that memory ends.

Suzanne stared at me for a moment, slapped the tabletop lightly and said, "there ya go... that little scenario is what shaped your thoughts and perspective on relationships as an adult. Bingo."

I, of course, said... "hogwash"


Although when I returned home that night, I played the song I had recorded and cried fresh tears. It was as though a long lost puzzle piece had finally come home, and found its place.

It seemed to fit.