There was a little park in Crockett where mothers and children gathered. I went there and drew the hands of the mothers in their laps. Their hands gesturing as talked to each other while the children played. Their hands on the chains which suspended the swings as they pushed them. And then the small hands of the children on tin shovels as they loaded sand into buckets. Their hands on the rail of the ladder that led to the slide. By now I was very good at drawing hands and drew rapidly. The children sometimes gathered around me to watch. I gave them the sketches.

Silver Beach. Walked along the shore road with Sid. Holding hands like teenagers. The smell of the ocean. Hot sand. Like the first sight of the snow covered Sierras and suddenly the air is redolent of sugar pines. The taste of warm apple doughnuts. Sid's touch. Remembering the sound of the river Our bodies entwined.

"Go on," I said. I was fighting back tears as I listened to the sound of her voice and looked at her face. Wanted her to go on talking because I could not. Reached in my backpack for my reading glasses . Said: "Can't see the food any more without these."

Did Luke know he had fathered a child I wondered. Probably not. Killed so soon after he shipped out.

Unlike Luke, my Mother died slowly. Cancer.