Conference turris::womannotes-v3

			Not Like Going Home Again
			-------------------------

	The night that changed my life forever started out foggy. How
appropriate I thought for what I was going through in my life. I was
driving to my sister Judy's house to tell her about my new discovery.  Even
with the patches of fog and approaching dusk I remember how everything on
that familiar route seemed more alive, more real to me. The blue letters on
the Mobil sign, the shine in that red corvette sitting outside the foreign
motors shop, the flicker of television images outside people's windows.
Even the digital display in my car was glowing greener than it usually did.

	When the lights of an approaching car hit my windshield, I realized
how dirty and fogged up it had gotten. I turned on the defroster,squirted
some washer fluid on it and turned on the wipers.  How could I explain to
Judy what I had discovered about myself? What words would I use? How would
she react to the news?  And would I even be able to tell her or would I be
too afraid?  Back and forth went the wipers. The windshield was not getting
clearer.  The car was getting very hot. I fiddled with the fan speed. High,
low, medium. Back and forth went the wipers. Faster, hotter. How could I
say the word to her, the word that described what I was?  That word that
used to be so ugly to me that even now I had trouble thinking about it. It
was that word, the L word, the word lesbian. 

	Lesbian. I reached for the fan adjuster and started playing with
the speed again.  The window just didn't want to stay clear.  Lesbian,
lesbian, lesbian.  I said the word over and over again in my mind. The word
that for so many years had been like a filthy rag in my mind, a rag I
didn't want to touch. Lesbians were big, ugly, mean, skin made of steel,
ate raw meat, had no teeth, drove motorcycles, dressed in leather clothing
and hated men. I cursed the windshield for not clearing and cranked up the
radio for a distraction. 

	I began to think about the images of lesbians that had been
hammered in my mind over the years. I thought about the two teachers I had
in Junior High School, Miss Freedman and Miss Nelson,  who were labeled
"dykes" and I thought about how everybody whispered about them and made
nasty remarks.  I remembered thinking of them as dirty because they were
gay. I thought about a "Saturday Night Live" episode that had a sketch with
a "dyke" in it. In the sketch the lesbian had short hair and was dressed in
a man's suit.  It was hard to tell if she was a man or a woman. I thought
about a guy that went to college with me who suspected I was gay because I
didn't seem too interested in dating men.  He would tease me and I would
listen in silence. I thought about a remark my brother-in-law had made last
Thanksgiving about two lesbians vacationing in Antigua who were murdered at
the beach. "You can just imagine what they were doing on the beach," I
remember him saying and again I listened in silence. These images remained
carved in my mind like words chiseled in stone. 

	Stopped at a traffic light a few miles from Judy's house, I watched
the wipers go back and forth and envied their rhythmic, predictable motion.
For a year now I had been coming out and starting to deal with my
homosexuality.  At first I had no one to talk to about my homosexual
feelings: I was isolated. I didn't know any gay people and was too
frightened to tell anyone. I pictured myself as a scuba diver slowly
emerging from the depths of a cold, dark ocean where everything was moving
in slow motion. The only sound was my breathing and when I looked around
all I could see were thousands of tiny bubbles that were like thousands of
tiny tears that raced with me to the surface.   I wondered what sea
monsters lurked beyond the bubbles and if their sharp, long teeth would try
to puncture my skin. As I neared the surface, I would catch a glimpse of
the sunlight as it tried to reach down into the ocean and touch me. I
imaged that I would drift to the surface alone, eventually. 

	For so many years I had stuffed these feelings I had for other
women in the back of my mind. But now they were emerging and I couldn't
ignore them any longer. I had gone out with men and done what a woman was
supposed to do. Sometimes I had even daydreamed about marrying a man just
to fit in, to be the norm, to be predictable and not different. It was
safer. Sometimes when I would see straight couples holding hands I envied
them because they could be openly affectionate and not worry about being
ridiculed or attacked. But there was no spark with men.  I had always
developed crushes on women.  I remember being at a slumber party when I was
around twelve and I ended up on the sofa with another friend because there
wasn't enough room for us to spread our sleeping bags out on the floor.
I remember how wonderful it felt it wrap my arms around her and just hold
her. And after fourteen years the significance of that night became clear
to me. 

	But I had never been in a relationship with a woman so how could I
even be sure I was a lesbian? Why was this happening to me? Was something
wrong with me? Maybe I was just confused? And if I told my family and
friends would I lose their friendship and love? Would I have the strength
to get though this unlike so many other homosexual and bisexual people?
Would anyone ever know the gentle, tender thoughts I felt for women and how
they swayed softly through my mind and touched my heart.  These thoughts
tumbled in mind like wet clothes in a dryer. 

	Turning into Judy's driveway, the damn windshield was still not
totally clear.  The kitchen was lit up like a bonfire and I could see Judy
sitting at the table doing homework. She was wrapped up in a comforter and
drinking a cup of warm coffee.  I thought back to my childhood and the many
times on cold, snowy days how Judy and I would curl up in front of the
television drinking hot chocolate and eating cookies. I remembered the
night my oldest sister tried to commit suicide and how Judy and I lay in
bed scared, not knowing what was going to happen.  And my first semester
at college how Judy and her boyfriend came to visit me and temporarily
drove away my homesickness. I remembered all the times we laughed and all
the times we cried and all the times we were there for each other. As I
stepped out of my car I knew that this night was the start of a new life
for me.  As I walked toward the front door, I let the cool, brisk air
penetrate my skin, knowing that soon I'd be warm. 


			  Laurie Langelo
    
			  Original 10/89
			  Revisited 5/7/91

    
    Thanks Laurie, I'm still learning.
    
    You (and a lot of others) are broadening my perspectives, widening
    my views, adding knowledge and making me more understanding to
    homesexuality as such and the personal problems most of you have to
    deal with. I can never put myself in your place, but you have made me
    aware of situations I never have thought of, and i'll promise that I'll
    do whatever I can to make sure people crossing my roads never have to
    go through what you just described.
    
    PerS
    
    btw, do you have the rest of the story? :-)

    Thanks Laurie, 
    
    I remember one line as standing out "I listened in silence".  It
    reminded me of some poetry from years ago that I can only remember
    a fragment of... 
    
    	The cloaking silence,
        the shroud that covers us.
    	It's muted mask binds us,
    	the silent master of slavery,
        says speak not.
    	So I listen in silence.
    
    I think it spoke for itself then and still.

    Peace,
    Allison
    
    

			Endings
			-------

Walking to the new location of my masseuse, I realized that it had been
close to a year since I had split up with Jacki. The day of our breakup
was still clear in my head. It was a lazy summer afternoon and we were both
relaxing on the couch.  She was reading a book and I was dissecting the
Boston Globe. My Siamese cat, Molly Yard, was stretched out on the floor on
a strip of sunlight that beamed in through the bay window. A light breeze
carried the sweet smell of lilacs into our house as Chris Williamson's
album "The Changer and the Changed" played on the stereo. We had been
together for four years and I'd thought we'd be together forever. She had
been unusually quiet and withdrawn for the few weeks before and I knew
something was wrong. I was reading in the entertainment section of the
Globe when she brought up the subject of the "other woman". I could feel my
heart punching at my rib cage and mountains of tears forming behind my
eyes. And then she told me she wanted to end us. Four years of us was over.
My glass dream of us together forever was shattered. And then I was alone.

On this mini-vacation down in Provincetown I was alone again. Susie, the
woman I had been dating for two months and had planned to come down here
with had dumped me two weeks before this trip. The thought of another
rejection was depressing. My best friend Rusty kept telling me that I was
trying to hard. She was like a wild mustang, so wild and free and not
worried about finding a soulmate. Her big blue eyes would sparkle at me and
she'd say 

"Hey Laura, you're trying to hard. You're too intense. If you like someone
just go out and date her. You don't have to marry her. When you're not
looking for that special someone you'll find her." 

She was so damn confident about this that I hated and loved her for it at
the same time. I hated her for it because she wasn't worried about it like
I was and I loved her for it because she believed in the existence of
soulmates. I thought that if enough people believed in soulmates that it
would make it real and that someday I would find mine.

The new house that my masseuse, Nina, was working out of was at the end of
a quiet little street.  Outside her house was a beautiful arrangement of
flowers: red salvias, petunias, yellow marigolds and geraniums. I could
picture her strong, soft hands out in the garden carefully arranging the
flowers and tucking them gently into the ground. Jacki had had wonderful
hands. Strong yet gentle hands. I thought back to the first time we had
made love. We were laying on the living room floor in her home surrounded
by several candles because a bad storm had knocked out the power and we had
no electricity. It was raining buckets out but we didn't care. We lay there
telling stupid jokes and then one of her strong yet gentle hands touched my
face and our eyes locked. Her hand was like a magic wand that sent
titillating feelings all through my body and cast a seductive spell over my
soul. Slowly she moved her hand down my neck and onto the top button of my
shirt. Our lips meet and we made love to the music of the rain. 

"Hi," Nina said through the screendoor snapping me out of my flashback.

I had been coming to her for almost two years year now and it was always a
pleasure to see her. There was a certain calmness about her that always
soothed my soul.  She led me into her new massage room and then she left me
alone to get ready. The room was semi-dark, comfortably warm and there were
a few candles burning. I got undressed, wrapped myself in a big,soft towel
and crawled onto the massage table. I laughed to myself thinking how
nervous I had been the first time I had a professional massage three years
ago. 

"Do you think she'll notice the hair on my chest? Maybe I should shave it
off," I had said to Jacki with a small blush on my face. 

Jacki just laughed and said,"All two strands of hair? I'm sure she's seen it
all hon. You'll be so relaxed during the whole thing that you won't care
what she thinks." 

She was right. I was relaxed and never even thought about the two strands
of hair on my chest. 

When Nina came into the room she put on a rain forest tape and her warm
hands starting working on my head. The rain, the warm hands. I thought back
again to Jacki and I and the first time we made love. I kept telling myself
to stop thinking about her and to think about other things. By the time
Nina's hands started swirling over my back I had stopped thinking about
Jacki and had drifted to my nirvana.  

My mind had drifted to a make believe place where I was in control. It was
along a mighty river with an awesome view of a snow-capped mountain. I went
to this place often to escape the realities of life. Surrounding me were
all my favorite women friends. Rusty my wonderful wild mustang friend who 
knew me better than anyone. Rebecca the accountant whose logical mind
was always useful. Carla, the incredible writer whose sharp wit was always
amusing.  Chris, intelligent and charismatic, a born saleswoman. And there
were others there too numerous to mention. We were all naked, smiling,
laughing, at peace with ourselves and the world around us. The birds sang
to us as the sun's warmth blanketed our bodies. 

A soft voice whispered to me "turn over now" and as my body rolled over on
the massage table, I imagined myself swimming in the clear, warm lake
turning and playing like a dolphin. There were a large school of fish the
colors of the rainbow that swam with me. Then another dolphin appeared and
rubbed against me,playfully. We raced in the water and nudged each other
along the way. It then occurred to me that I didn't know the sex of my
dolphin playmate. I remembered reading that in addition to being highly
intelligent dolphins were also bisexual. Dolphins masturbated with both
male and female partners. Taking a lesson from these beautiful creatures, I
stopped thinking about the gender of my playmate and just enjoyed the water
adventure. How free and open it felt to be a dolphin.

My dolphin playmate led me to a secret underwater cave which was made
completely out of gems. There were sapphire sunroofs that shoot beams of
blue light onto the cave floor. Some of the sunroofs had tails of emeralds
and the blue and green lights combined to form aquamarine designs all along
the cave. There was a fountain made out of diamonds and it sprouted up all
different color gems and they floated all around the cave and peacefully
floated all around. They decorated the cave like Nina's flowers had
decorated the outside of her house. Octopus' lay all over the cave, many of
them dangled from the ceiling. In one corner of the cave there were two
octopuses entangled with each other and in another corner baby octopuses were
using their many arms to play a game which resembled baseball. 

My playmate led me into a room made solely out of soft rubies that had the
feel of a pillow. I felt like I was nestled inside a giant rose. Never
having made love as a dolphin I knew not what to do or how dolphins even
loved each other. I floated peacefully awaiting the advances of my new
found friend. 

"Lay here for a few minutes and then turn over. I'll be back in a few 
minutes," Nina whispered to me from outside my nirvana.

Suddenly I was next to the river amongst my women friends. They all had
their arms open to embrace me. In the river I saw my dolphin playmate whose
head peaked above the water. The dolphin smiled at me and then went back to
its home under the water. I lay like a cloud on the massage table. Slowly,
my body got heavier and my nirvana began to fade back into my imagination.
I opened my eyes and saw the flicking of the candles and started to hear
the rain again. I took a deep breath and let the smells of the massage oil
and scents from the candles penetrate my senses. 

After a few minutes my body began to mold back into the shape of a woman. I
lay for a few minutes depressed over the thought that a wonderful adventure
had to come to an end. Like my adventure with Jacki had come to an end
after four years. And my two months of dating with Susie had ended. Laying
there on the table I thought about how I hated the word "ending". In my
life it always had so much pain associated with it. 

Back to reality now, I got up from the table and got dressed. Then I got
out my checkbook and let its cold, hard numbers stare me in the face. Nina
knocked softly on the door and I told her to come in. We chatted for a few
minutes about some of the massage oils that she used in her work and her
flower bed. I stared into her emerald eyes, something I hadn't done with
Nina before. I liked to study a woman's eyes. It was if they were pathways
into someone's soul and I could discover secrets about them by inspecting
their eyes. Some people had closed souls and you could learn nothing about
them by looking deeply into their eyes. But Nina had an open soul and I
clearly saw the peace inside that radiated throughout the rest of her body.
She was like a sunset after a warm,clear day. Beautiful yellow,orange and
purple hues blending together harmoniously and stretching across the sky
waiting to embrace the next day like a woman's open arms waiting to embrace
her soulmate. 

"Are you busy tomorrow?," she said. 

"Well, I didn't have any definite plans. I was planning on just going for a 
bike ride."

"Would you be interested in going sailing with me?"

I thought for a moment. I had never done anything with Nina outside of
getting a massage from her. Rusty in this situation would have jumped at
the chance to do something with Nina. She probably would have already asked
Nina to do something. My cautious voice spoke to me and had me projecting
all kinds of things. 

"I'd love to," I said silencing the cautious voice inside myself 
and leting my own wild mustang self out of its corral.

"Meet me here at 10:00." 

As I stepped out of the house, a beautiful sunset was stretched out before
me.  So I would go sailing with Nina tomorrow and then what happens? We go
bike riding, we go out to dinner, we go back to her place? Oh, damn it, I
thought, just stop projecting. I always had to project what would happen.
Why couldn't I just enjoy the moment. I'd have us married before we even
went sailing. 

With the sunset at my side I continued my journey back to the inn I was
staying at. I'd go sailing tomorrow with Nina. Period. No more thoughts
about what would happen after that. I promised myself that I'd think only
positive thoughts tonight.  I'd think about dolphins, rubies, wild
mustangs, good friends, rain forests, snow-capped mountains, warm hands,
strong yet gentle hands. Jacki's strong yet gentle hands now replaced with
Nina's. I smiled to myself finally realizing that endings are just the
start of new beginnings. 


			Laurie Langelo
			6/2/91

    
This story is printed without permission from a book called "Lesbian
Bedtime Stories". It's a great book and I adore this story! 



		A Different Kind of Family
		by T.C. Robbins

"Her bath's done and she's waiting for you to come tell her a story," 
Kamaria said with an air of understated victory.  Meg looked up from her 
work at the desk, faintly amused.  Her eyes showed the love she felt better 
than words could. Even if Kamaria had not spoken Meg would have known she'd 
entered the room; Kamaria had that kind of presence.  She had striking 
eyes; eyes that seemed more to reflect the deep brown of her skin than to 
have a color of their own; eyes that suited the tall, large woman who 
looked elegant even in faded blue jeans and an old college sweatshirt, with 
her long braid desheveled.

  "Thanks, Kamaria. Looks like you got a bath, too.  What story do you 
think she'll want to hear?"  With a smile and then a laugh, Kamaria crossed 
the room.  She stood behind the chair and placed her arms around Meg's 
neck.

  "Oh good, a question I know the answer to. Beth asked me if I thought 
tonight you'd tell her the story about the party.  I said I thought maybe 
you would."  The request didn't suprise either one of them. This particular 
story was one of Bethany's favorites; she had had a part in it.  "Meg, what 
did you ever find to tell her about before you met me?" Kamaria meant the 
remark to be flip, but her arms tightened just slightly around Meg's neck. 
Some days it really did seem like a fairytale, and a year--how different 
things had been a year ago.

  Meg took Kamaria's hand and pulled her around so they were facing each 
other. Both women looked down at their hands.  The contract of their skin 
had at first seemed to be a gulf; now it united them all the more.  They 
were still for a moment, then Meg broke the silence. "Guess I better go 
tend to that kind of mine.  Will you take a look at the ledger when you get 
a minute?"

   Meg accepted the other woman's nod and walked to the door of her 
daughter's room.  The walls were a kind of page green that only an adult 
would inflict upon a child.  The circus accents were more in keeping with 
Bethany's taste; animals of all types were one of her many passions.  While 
waiting for her mother Bethany had found something else to do.  She was on 
the bed, dark hair flying, arms just missing lamps and other unimportant 
objects, bed breaking with every movement.  "Hi, Mommmy!" the child said, 
then halfway through a bounch she realized that Mom was not quite as amused 
by this game as she was.  After hitting the bed she stopped bouncing and 
proceeded to look innocent.  "Are you gonna tell me a story now, Mommy?"

   Desptie herself, Meg had to laugh just a little as she rearranged the 
child and bed into some semblance of order before she sat down.  "yes, but 
you can't be jumping on the bed like that. OK?" She waited for the child to 
nod. "Good. What would you like to hear? Perhaps Snow White?"

    "No, Mommy, I wanna hear how I got you and Kay together." Meg looked 
slightly pained, but settled in to tell the story.  "Kay, are you gonna 
come listen to the story, too?"  Bethany said to Kamaria who, looking 
rather neater than before, had come into the room.

    "No,"said the black woman, leaning over to hug the child.  "I just came 
in to say goodnight." That is one story I've heard quite enough, thank you. 
 Sleep well, little one."  Though Meg's eyes were green to her daughter's 
brown, and her hair shorter and lighter, the mother and child still looked 
very much alike.  Kamarias was surprised she didn't feel like an outsider, 
but she didn't

   "Goodnight, Kay." Kamaria always had to smile when Bethany called her by 
her nickname.  It sounded so grown-up coming out of such a little mouth.  
It had orginally been Meg's name for her because Meg claimed that "Kamaria" 
was too many syllables in bed.  Bethany had adopted the name because she'd 
watned to share in the special closeness between two women.  In doing so 
she had solved the problem of what Bethany should call her.

    Kamaria and Bethany had a really good relationship.  What could have 
been a rivalry for Meg's attention was instead a partnership, of sorts. In 
the time they had known each other Bethany had developed a great deal of 
respect for her mother's lover.  In fact, Bethany had grown to love 
Kamaria, maybe not the same way she loved her mother, but it was love all 
the same.  She was deeply proud of having a different kind of family and 
often bragged about having two mothers.  She didn't understand everything, 
but the change in her mother had been dramatic; Meg laughed more and wasn't 
always so worried. And Kamaria was always willing to take the time to talk 
to her.

    As she released the child, Kamaria hugged the other person on the bed. 
"Have fun, sweethearts."  Kamaria laughed at her lover's helpless 
expression and turned off the light as she left.
  
    In the semi-darkness of the night-light, Meg began her story. "Once 
upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away---No? Ok,OK. I'll tell it right," 
Meg said, responding to Bethany's outraged look.  "Let's see. Your daddy 
and I had been divorced for a little over a year when I decided to move to 
this section of town."

    They had moved out of the apartment they'd lived in before the divorce. 
 It had been a hard move, but a necessary one.  Meg had still been 
dependent on her ex, Jim, and she'd known she needed to do something about 
that if she wanted to ever get on with her life.  Lucky for Meg, Jim had 
been very supportive about the whole thing, including Kamaria, when it came 
to her.  He'd understood Meg's need to live her life her way, but he was 
still very much a part of his daughter's life.  He had been pleased the 
school Bethany would be attending was so good.

   "School..." As the tail end of her thought was spoken aloud, Meg 
suddenly remembered she was trying to tell some sort of a story. "When I 
took you to your first day of school here we met Kamaria.  And to tell you 
the truth, baby, at first I didn't really like her.  She was one of those 
people who just seems too good at what they do.  I remember her standing 
there in her blue dress, looking so strong, so purposeful..."  The dress 
had been shirt waist style, made out of lightweight denim.  It looked like 
it would go as well with cowboy gear as it did with the dark blue flats 
Kamaria had worn with them.  Kamaria's midnight black hair, though long and 
soft, was extremely tick and tended to tangle if it wasn't pulled back.  
That time it had been arranged in a neat ponytail.

    Meg's first impression was that Kamaria looked like someone out of a 
Marlboro ad: someone used to wide open spaces.  How could she explain to 
her daughter how lost she's felt and how Bethany's beautiful new teacher 
had struck her. Meg had been attracted to other women before and she 
certainly didn't believe in love at first sight, but she'd felt an 
immediate connection to Kamaria.  It had been more emtoinal than 
physical--that had come later.  Somehow Kamaria had made her feel safe and 
accepted.  There'd been an overwhelming desire to trust this woman 
completely, let her in.  That had scared Meg.  She hadn't allowed herself 
to depend on anyone in that way in a long time--trust gave the other person 
power.  All the same, Kamaria had made her feel wonderful and horrible and 
just completely confused.  It had brought a sense of belonging and an even 
stronger sense--of longing.

   All this, from their occasional contact as parent and teacher.  To put 
this disturbing woman out of her mind, Meg had decided that she disliked 
her, but of course it wasn't that easy.  And to make it even harder, 
Bethany and Kamaria had quickly become great friends; every night it had 
been Ms. Flint this and Ms. Flint that.

   "I heard about you new friend all the time, and then one day when I was 
out along at the Gold Key, I met her.  She was at a table with a bunch of 
other women and I was sitting at the bar. She saey me and after a couple of 
minutes she got up and invited me over to  her table.  I didn't really want 
to go, but I didn't have anything better to do so I did.  And you know 
what?"  Meg cuddled Bethany who had crawled into her lap.  "It turns out 
Kamaria was a really nice person.  I liked the people at her table, too.  
After a while I forgot that we weren't sitting around someone's kitchen 
table.  For the first time in what seemed to be a very long time, I was 
comfortable. 

   "For a bit Kay and I were just friends, but that started to change 
quickly, perhaps too quickly.  I guess I was scared to take a chance.  
Anyway, I said some things. She said some things.  She is so different from 
anyone I've known."  Meg shook her head and smiled slightly, remembering 
their first fight.  She had felt so lost after Kamaria had left in anger.  
To Meg it had meant that everything was over.  She and Jim had rarely 
fought; she'd figured if she and Kamaria could make each other that 
hostile, especially early on, then they couldn't possibly have a future.

    "I didn't know what to say or how to say it," Meg continued.  She had 
wanted to call Kamaria, but she hadn't been able to, not yet.  "You 
remember those days, don't you, Beth?  I was pretty hard to live with then, 
jumping every time the phone rang."  The little girl nodded sleepily and 
opened her eyes just a little;  this was her faorite part of the story. "My 
friends and even your dad said I should go ahead and try to make up with 
Kay.  But, in the end, it was you who did something about it, huh,Beth? You 
kept the secret so well that I never guessed at all."

    Bethany's actual contribution had been small, but it had made her feel 
important.  All she had done was mention to Kamaria that her mother's 
birthday was soon.  That had given Kamaria the idea to throw Meg a surprise 
party.  It was just the type of grand gesture Kamaria liked to make; she 
never did anything halfway.

    Kamaria had moved into Meg's arpatment a month after their relationship 
began and it had only been another month and a half before the fight.  It 
had started about space, but had gotten vicious when their underlying 
problems had come to surface.  Kamaria hadn't liked Meg's insecurity.  She 
hadn't liked always having her feelings for Meg questioned and she'd grown 
tired of having to walk on eggshells around Meg's fears.

    She'd been scared, too. She hadn't been so sure she wanted to help 
raise a child or, for that matter, commit to a relationship.  In some ways 
it had frigthened Kamaria to know Meg meant so much to her.

    When Kamaria had left the apartment after the fight she hadn't been 
sure she ever wanted to go back.  IN the end, though she decided three 
things: that she had faith in their love, that it was worth a fair shot, 
and that she wanted to say so in a very big way.  Mostly she'd invited all 
the women from the Gold Key, but also, through Jim, she'd gotten in touch 
with some of Meg's old friends.

    "It was lucky Kay still had the apartment key or it would have been a 
bit harder for her to set the whole things up," Meg continued the story.  
"I was dmn near struck dumb when I walked through our door and was greeted 
with confetti and shouts of "Surprise!"  You know what my first response 
was? 'What are the neighbors going to think?'"

   "That figures,"Kamaria said quietly as she slipped into the room. And it 
did figure; Meg tended to worry a lot about what other people thought. She 
rarely accepted things at face value, either, and she almost never thought 
people did things for her because they wanted to.

    Kamaria could understand Meg's wariness; they'd both been hurt in the 
past.  Bethany asked a muffled question, and it brought Kamaria back to the 
subject at hand.

    "I came to hurry your mother up,"Kamaria replied. "Maybe then I can 
have her back before midnight." Meg caught the humor in her lover's voice.  
Then she caught her eyes.

    It had taken Meg a long time to learn the different ways Kamaira 
expressed emotions.  Meg was used to talking at length about her feelings, 
but a touch, a hug--a smile, even--could mean more to Kamaria than all 
those words.  Kamaria talked, especially when it was important, but she 
didn't ry to verbalize or justiy her feelings.  It was easier to just let 
things happen, and to trust in her ability to handle the outcome.

    That's what their fight had been about, really; neight of them had 
understood how the other communicated.  Meg needed to be told that she was 
loved. Kamaria felt that her actions said enough.  Meg had felt 
overwhelmed, and had been angry that Kamaria didn't talk to her; she'd felt 
that she never knew what Kamaria was thinking. Meg hadn't expected this 
relationship;  she'd been afraid that it would end as quickly as it had 
begun.

    "Anyway," said Meg, continuing with the story as Kamaria settled in to 
listen to the end,"I couldn't believe Kamaria had done all this for me; I 
mean, nobody had ever thrown me a party, not since I was a child.  It was 
great;  I loved the huge banner across the living room door, and the 
baloons and streamers everywhere.  I guess it was more or less your typical 
birthday party, but it meant a great deal to me, just that Kamaria was 
willing to go to all that trouble." Meg looked up and smiled at Kamaria.  
"After everybody else left we tried to figure out where to go from there. 
It wasn't an easy conversation and we didn't figure it all out then, but 
we've got time.  And love..."

    Anything more Meg might have said would have been for Kamaria's benfit 
only, as Bethany had fallen fast asleep.  Instead of going on, to say how 
wonderful the year had been or how much faith she had in their future, Meg 
simply took Kamaria's hand.  Together they tucked Bethany in.  At the 
doorway Meg turned and looked at BEthany, then she looked at Kamaria, 
catching her eyes.  Once she had thought that her child was her chance, her 
hope, but now--now she had another chance. One that was hers and Kay's.

    Being a mon for all these years I'm not sure what that means.....I met
    Michael when he was eight so we were strangers for awhile...until when?
    When I held him when he cryed...I told him I wouldn't leave like the
    others...that I would always stay...I'm not sure he believed me at
    first...now he does...the only thing that I wished was different was
    that his father was there for him...I could never compete with his
    father....
    
    Being a mom to someone else's child isn't easy...I nutured
    him....supported him...discplined him...but really could not make any
    decision about him...I was invisible to the schools...just a
    friend...or an aunt....whatever....nothing more....he loves me
    though...because I didn't go away...I stayed and love him like no
    other...he is my son...
    
    Saying now to folks....I have a son is somewhat remarkable....I am
    really a mom...I can talk about how proud he makes me...or what my
    fears are for his future...and when someone says how is your son...I
    have to stop and think about....I mean...what special words those are
    to me....
    
    Michael is 21...he is my son....
    
    ----------------
    
    Do I look like a grandmother....my grandmother always looked like a
    elderly woman with greying hair...she never looked young to me...I am
    Nise to my grandson, Michael, and we have been friends for ever....I
    remember when he was first born and on warm summer eves I would hold
    him and walk around the front yard together....He would watch the
    leaves on the tree and feel the warm breezes....I would hold him so he
    would feel safe and I would rock him till he fell asleep....Such quiet
    times...My grandson and I were never strangers....Nise come play with
    me....teach me how to play ball, to play hockey, to learn my
    colors....Nise let's go outside and play in the front yard...where we
    first got to know one another...Nise show me this....show me that...I
    love you, Nise....
    
    Michael is 3....his is my grandson

         		The Sisters of Mercy

         			***

         		The Sisters of Mercy
         		They are not departed or gone.
         		They were waiting for me
         		When I thought that I just can't go on 
         		They brought me their comfort
         		And later they brought me their song.
         		Oh I hope you run into them
         		You who've been traveling so long.

         Gradually, the pounding in my temples becomes loud enough to 
	 awaken me. Not from sleep ... at least not from any such
         rest as the body gathers to itself as a respite from
         work. Rather I struggle up from unconsciousness through a
         miasma of pain. My heart labors in my chest, its throbbing 
         a red pulse behind my eyes. At first, I hear nothing but
         the rushing sound of it's beating. The skin on my face
         is tight with dried blood; my left eye swollen nearly
         shut; my hair plastered to my scull where the blood
         flowed under their blows. I run a dry tongue over my
         lips and taste my own blood. It is salty.

         I am standing. How can I be standing? My good leg is
         weak and shaking; my right one is broken below the knee.
         I can see the bone jutting forward through the skin on
         my shin. I can not feel the pain. Not yet. My years of 
         tending the broken bones and heads of others tell me that 
         it would be a near thing ... what would kill me first,
         the swelling that I know is there next to my brain for my 
	 sight is crazed and I feel like a drunken wretch with the world
	 reeling under him; or the infection that always follows
         such a broken bone. My mind catalogues the treatments by 
         habit..."Lie still, don't go to sleep, if your vision gets 
         any worse we will have to drill a tiny hole in your
         skull to let the fluid out." Of course, I am the only
         one able to drill the hole, so there will be no relief
         for me. The putrefaction of my flesh from gangrene
         would take longer, but would be just as sure. The only
         treatment I know for that is cutting the leg off, but I
         feel the heat in my groin that tells me the
         infection has already passed beyond any knife's chance
         of stopping it. How long have I been unaware?

         I laugh out loud, not a good thing. It makes my
         head hurt so badly I feel my grasp on consciousness
         slipping sideways. I gasp to keep my awareness with me,
	 suddenly desparate to hold every minute of life left me
	 up in the light. I would not want to slip away while I
	 was unconscious, not knowing if I would waken or not. 

         "See!" A man cries. "see, she laughs! I told you! I told
         you! I told you she wasn't dead! I told you that dumping 
	 her in there wouldn't kill her. You can't kill one of
         her kind so easily."

 	 My mind refuses to hold the memory of the events that he is
	 talking about. Fleeting images of bleeding fingernails, darkness,
	 fetid air ... all shimmer just out of reach of remembrance. I do 
	 not try to recall them. 

         I laugh again. The flames will kill me long before the swelling in my
         beaten and bruised head can bring the sleep on death to
         me, or the infection coursing through my blood can reach
         a vital organ. Yet while it still works, my mind insists on
         observing and weighing each detail as it always has
         done ... saving each fact for a time when it might be
         needed ... judging each action for reason and rhyme.
         I smile. It hurts my mouth, but I smile. The man is
         raving again, but there is little that I can do to stop
         these events now, so let him rave. Let him worry about
         my smile. These ones have never listened to the melodies
         that play around them; have never heard the rhythm and
         rhyme of all within the whole. I smile at that. 
	 
         My hands are tied behind me, rough cords cutting into
         my wrists, my fingers numb. The hemp that keeps me
         from falling to me knees wraps cruelly around my waist
         and breasts. Blood still leaks from the place where one
         nipple just lately perched on the softness of a breast.
         Where a casual lover licked and teased it with his mouth
         not so many years ago, a jagged tear starts, dangling the
         nipple off to one side like a piece of chicken skin
         waiting to be trimmed. The jagged bark of the timber that 
         keeps me from collapsing cuts across my back. Heat...all 
         around me like waves beating on some Vulcan shore I feel the heat.

  	 When am I? A different question.

         Plague. It dances in the eyes of the ones who circle
         the flames. There is precious little time to 
         tell the story from this perspective. The flames surge
         higher and hotter, fanned by a gentle breeze, greedy for
         the fagots and the fire for my flesh. I fear the fabric
         of the past will not hold a weave much longer, like the 
         rush of Spring flood my memories roar around me. Buffeted 
         against the rocks of yesterday, I remember.

         			***


         My barn is old like I am, gray and sparse, gap-toothed. It sits 
         behind my little cottage, all a-tilt like some drunk leaning 
         on the church wall to keep from falling down. Reminds me of Sean
         O'Leary. He is a fine man...still runs his little
         stead down the road...and feeds his children and wife on
         a fairly regular basis. But on a Friday night, you'll find him
         propped against the common table at Callum's drinking his fill of
         honeyed mead. Some time after the last of the drinkers
         have gone home, he totters out and heads up the road. But the 
         usual place to find him of a Saturday morning is leaning against 
         St. Mary's wall. Lughe runs the cart down before milking time 
	 and tumbles his Dad into it for the ride home. Sean sleeps it off 
	 and goes back to St. Mary's every Sunday morning for confession 
	 and early mass.

         I don't understand these Christians. Being one doesn't
         seem to change them any. They still do just as they
         please, only now there's no payment due the piper for
         his song, if you catch my meaning. In the old days, Sean
         was ever a lad who couldn't resist the tipsy, but when
         he was found leaning against the wall in town he had to
         work his offense off to make it up to the Lady. Now, he
         still drinks until he can't stand up, but instead of making it
         right, he whispers his deeds into the ears of some dirty
         monk hiding in a black box and goes on about his
         business, just like he'ld never done a thing. Strange.
         Perhaps that is why they need a place for the souls of
         the dead to suffer. Hell, they call it. How else
         to pay all that's due? They save it up for what they
         call judgment and then they go to hell to pay for it.
         I prefer to pay as I go, I always say. Same way with
         credit. None given, none taken. There is always
         something can be exchanged for services taken or
         received. I want no tally being kept on me that I must
	 account for when I it's time to go.


         			***

         My only cow is dieing while calving and I am fighting to 
         save her and her unborn calf. The calf is turned around...
         hind legs first...and wedged tight. I am pushing it back into 
         its dam, trying to turn it around so her labor can
         deliver it. It's a messy business, calving. Even when it goes right
         you end up covered in slime and blood; and when it's
         wrong, your hands get slippery and raw. The more you
         pull the harder it gets to hold on. A contest with
         death. I was losing this one and I was frightened by
         that. I am not used to loosing. And it was my only cow.

         "Cellia! Cellia! Come quick! My Da is sick!"

         Young Sean is panting in the doorway. He has his Dad's
         eyes, black on black with waving black hair and fair
         skin. Niahm had eyes and hair like that before she died
         of fever. I can see her little face just like it was
         right before she let go, she smiled at me ... the pain
         gone away for those few instants that I could give her
         before the dark closed around her.

         "Cellia! Please!"

         "I can't come right now, lad...I'll be there as soon as
         I can..."

         "No! He can't wait! He's burning up!"

         "Why do you all wait until it's such a close thing? 
         Mother of us all...get this calf out now!" I wailed at
         my poor cow. I see Sean hold his hand up to ward off
         evil, but I was well past caring. Let him make all the
         signs he wants, it is still me that they come crying to
         when they are hurting. It is me, not Friar Patrick who
         they bring their children to. Well, I would have to leave
         her...a man's life is worth more than a milk cow...even
         to the likes of me. Oh, but I wanted both! I made a silent
         pact with my Lady and leaned my weight away from
         her one last time, my hands locked around the head of
         the calf, both arms inside her up to my elbows.

         At the time, I was more than pleased that the little head
         burst out of the dam's ass right at that moment; that I
         could heave my foot up on her rump and pull the
         forelegs for all I was worth and dump her on the straw.
         So pleased I started to sing the birthing song right out
         loud. Sean started to back out the door. In the next weeks 
         I would remember the Lady's gift in a different light...but 
         for now I am happy that I still have a milk cow and a calf.

         A quick look to make sure the blood is not too much and
         a brief scrub in the water trough. I am ready to run 
         behind Sean to his Dad's cottage.


         			***

         			Yes, you, who must leave everything
         			That you can not control.
         			It begins with your family
         			And later comes round to your soul
         			Oh, I've been where you're hanging
         			I think I can see how you're pinned
         			When you're not feeling holy
         			Your loneliness says that you've sinned.


         "How long has he been sick?"

         The man before me is, indeed, burning up. His lips are
         cracked, his eyes glazed, the tongue swollen. I do not
         want to tell them he is dead before I look at him. They
         are good but simple folk...they would not take it well
         if I turned at the door and called him dead.

         "Only today, Cellia...today!"

         Margaret is ringing her hands...well she might. She
         has nine others besides Sean and one on the way from the
         look of her, if she loses this man, they will all go
         hungry.

         "Are you sure, Margaret? Only today...nothing before?"

         She is shaking her head at me. She doesn't know, she is
         just guessing. She has born him nine children and I
         would bet my cow's milk for a month that she has never
         seen him naked. She would have noticed nothing until he
         fell over dead. And he is near that.

         "Get you children in here, Margaret. All of them."

         "But why..."

         There is something to be said for being called the
         'Witch on the Hill" at times. I am not of that
         illustrious sisterhood of days even I cannot remember.
         I have some of the old ways, and I have learned to hold
         my own counsel, but I have no secrets that can only be
         told by the light of a new moon. I am a lesser child of
         dieing gods. But they do not know that. I settled my most 
         weird gaze on her and said, "Now!"

         I sprinkled water on his face and using a rag in my
         apron to cover my fingers, I pulled the blankets
         from him as she left...found the black pustules, covered
         him back up. I dropped the rag into the fire.

         It's not that I haven't seen my share of dieing. It's
         just that I usually have a fighting chance. But there is
         no fighting what I saw on the bed that day...you just
         ride it out and hope against hope that there a few left
         when it's done to start over.

         They are all standing in front of me. 

         "Strip."

         They stare at me, stupid.

         "By the Mother, Strip! Every one of you. You too
         Margaret...or would you like to join your Da?"

         They stripped. Each of them finding a little space they
         could stare into so they didn't have to face one another
         as they dropped their meager garments to the sod floor. I 
         almost laugh it is so comical. I can remember when I was
         a little girl that we were not so ashamed of our bodies
         that we hid them from our own flesh and blood. Not until
         the Roman God came did we learn shame. My little Niahm
         used to run naked through the dew at sunrise, trailing a
         water lily behind her. "Catch the dew, Da, catch the
         dew!", she would chant while my Cormack and I lay drowsing 
         on the grass, wrapped in each other's arms. She
         caught her fever one morning, running through the dew.
         It broke her Da's heart when she died of it, and broke
         his spirit that I could not keep her back. He left all
         those years ago. I didn't let my heart break, though,
         there were others that needed tending. I just put
         it away, safely hidden, where none could find it again. 

         I shove my anger and laughter aside. Four of them had the rash. 
         Two others were sniffling.

         "These three...have they been up in the high field?"

         "Just got back this morning..."

         "Have you eaten anything here? Drunk anything but from
         the stream?"

         They shake their heads at me.

         "Get back from where you came. Now. Don't take anything.
         Stop at my place for some bread and cheese...but leave,
         right now."

         "But it's our turn to be at home..."

         "Get out I said! Or follow your Da to his grave."

         They ran down the path and were gone. Soon enough I
         hoped.

         "Sit here beside me Margaret. I have some hard news for
         you."

         			***

         It spread like wildfire on peat bog. First raging out
         in the open, then diving beneath the surface. Still
         burning, but hidden it would smolder for days, then
         suddenly break free again to burn the life away. In the
         beginning, they would not believe me. In the beginning
         when I might have done them some good, they prayed to
         their Roman God for deliverance and the dirty monk
         preached atonement on the altar where once my Lady was
         honored.

         And when they finally did believe, and came crawling up 
         the path to my door, they were too far gone for anyone to 
         help them, save to give them that brief moment of peace 
         before an end to suffering.

         I told them to put everyone with a red rash or a cold in
         the church, behind the old wall at the crossroads and I would tend
         them as best I could, away from any that were still
         healthy. And they did at first. But too often they 
         would not part with favored child or an only son. Every time
         I thought we had it cornered, it would spring to life
         again, like the fire burning on the bog. There was a bog
         fire when I was just a girl. It burned for seven months.
         When winter came and the rains fell every day, it
         finally burned no more. Until Seamus was caught in the
         bog early one morning with his cart and right there
         before our eyes the fire rose out of the ground on all
         sides of him. We watched him burn. He screamed till I
         thought I would die of it. And then I reached out and
         stopped his heart. I never knew I could do that. I
         learned it that day in the bog. Even then I knew enough
         not to tell anyone. But I was different and they knew
         it.

         I soon had my fill of relieving the suffering from the
         bonds that tied them to their agony. I suppose it was 
         then that the rumors started.

         I have lived through so many rumors. "She rode a broom at
         midnight on the night of a new moon", they said. [Except
         that I was delivering Margaret's Sean that very night.]
         Of course, Sean is gone now. One of the first of
         Margaret's young one's to go. He with his black eyes and
         black hair. I will miss him.

         " She danced naked beneath the stars", they said, " a
         demon's face on my ass, that a coven of witches kissed." 
         They did not like it that I bared my ass before them to 
         prove that one false. I have always thought that their 
         major flaw lie in their total lack of humor ... one
         needs to laugh.

         So. I did not see my danger in this new rumor. The one
         where I brought the plague down on them for the death of
         my calf and searched the pockets of the newly dead for
         the few coins that I might find there. It died, the The
         calf. It was stiff in the hay when I returned home the
         day they called me for Sean. But the milk cow is fine. She is 
         an old lady, but she gives milk as well as any. I hope 
         someone will feed her and milk her when I am gone. It would 
         be a shame to have fought so hard for her and then have her 
         die of starvation because none would go untie the poor thing. 
         But maybe there will be none left to go.

         			***

	 So, here I am ... watching the flames rise around me,
         reflected in the eyes of the dancers circling round me. 
         Most are dead. Oh, they dance today, but I see the death
         in them. I regret that in my anguish I named them dead as 
         they harried me through the village, throwing rocks and stones, 
         herding me past where their fellows hid with sticks to trip me 
         and beat me. I named them one by one ... told them how
         and when they would die. Told them the names of their unborn 
         children who would never suckle at the breast. I named names, 
         and that is an evil thing, even for one such as I.

         But not a witch thing, not of Wicca. As I said, I am no
         witch. I am just an old woman who remembers much of what
         she has seen. Even in my extremity, I could catalogue
         their symptoms and prophecy how long it would be before
         each would succumb to the sickness they already carried
         in them. And having birthed every living soul in this
         village, I had no trouble knowing who would be named
         what when the time came for naming. It was a child's
         trick. And much like a child, I did it in fear and
         anger.
         
         And, I regret it. As I regret the death that faces me
         from out the circle.

         No, I am no witch. There are no more witches. But my 
         sisters, the ones who have gone before me, who have
         visited me in dreams, who tell me things that I cannot know but
         do, they are very close to me now. I can hear them
         almost. I have never heard their voices in waking. I
         wonder if they are as sweet in the light of day as they
         are in the solitude of darkness, when the only light is
         the moon and I am wrapped tightly in my woolen blankets. 
         I pretend to myself that they are telling me that they will 
         rescue me from this fire. That there will be no pain. That I will 
         have a way to leave the agony of charred flesh behind before 
         I feel it's heat. But how can that be? I see no way for that to be.

         I look a last time at the faces of the dead before me. I
         feel great pity and fear as the flames wash across the soles of
         my feet ... catch the hem of my shift and ripple
         upward, swirling around my legs. In my terror, I almost
         do not hear my sisters' voices. I open my mouth to scream but in
         the instant of drawing a heat-singed breath the voices
         of mercy sound clearly. Understanding comes, and as my
         body burns catches in a pillar of fire, I reach inside myself
         with the sureness of knowledge and touch this time my own heart.

         I am free.
			

         			They lay down beside me,
         			I made my confession to them.
                                They touched both my eyes,
         			And I touched the dew on their hem.
         			If your life is a leaf 
         			That the seasons tear off and condemn.
				They will bind you with love that is
				Graceful and green as a stem.

	         				Leonard Cohen

    
    Just a note of explanation...
    
    The short story is mine; the verse that runs throughout it
    was written by Leonard Cohen round about '67 sometime.
    
    M_
    

    M_ :
    
    You *ARE* a story-teller!!  I hopeyou write for others frequently!
    
    Jamd

    
    RE -1
    
    I usually write essays, not fiction. I have two pieces of
    fiction...this is one of them.
    
    [Thanks]