Five and a half decades after Janet’s death, my mother and I sit, side by side, on the double porch swing, which hangs from ropes, fastened to the ceiling of my back yard patio. While rocking, peacefully, gazing beyond the tallest peak of 'my' mountain, which rises magestically into the expanse of the desert's brilliant, blue sky, I'm listening intently to Mom, describing her depression, following Janet’s disappearance. I remember asking, “Mom, who took care of me? Grandma Ella?”
For a moment, my question sweeps my mother’s thoughts into that sorrowful time. Then, as her mind re-engages with the present, Mom's soft, brown eyes turn toward mine, and taking my hand in hers, my beautiful, newly widowed, white haired, close friend replies, “I really don’t remember who took care of you, Annie. We were all in a state of shock. I think you were taken to Grandma B’s.”
“But, Mom, Janet’s death was only four months after Grandpa's massive, heart attack. Grandma B must have been in deep mourning, because Grandpa’s sudden death, at fifty-two, was utterly unexpected. I remember Dad telling me how much Grandma had adored Grandpa. That her life had revolved around his. The fact that two, shocking deaths hit everyone in our close knit family in a matter of weeks suggests that tremendous shock waves of grief must have engulfed everyone in Grandma B's house right before deeply painful changes hit our own.”
Nodding her head in thoughtful agreement, Mom’s eyes look troubled and while gazing faraway, she continues, “That was a terribly sad year for everyone in our extended family.”
“Mom, think of the heavy burden Dad must have carried after losing his father and daughter, so abruptly. Aunt Sari and Aunt Risa were single, young women, who being in their early twenties, lived at home with Grandma B. Grandpa’s death made Dad the head of both households and the family business, as well. When did he have time to grieve for either loss? After Janet’s death, where did Dad pack his grief when he left the apartment, each morning, and arrived at his place of business, which he'd run with his dad?"
As we continue gliding back and forth, the even cadence of the swing feels as soothing as a balm, washing over an old wound, which I’d never realized had been in need of healing within—me. Until that moment, I'd considered my Grandpa's death and Janet's death my parents' loss. While my mother and I share these solemn moments of companionable silence, my perceptions sharpen, and my train of thought expands: “There’s so much we don’t know about our parents’ lives. So much we don’t understand about the under currents, which influence our earliest years of development.” At this point, Mom goes on to say that Janet’s tiny coffin had been placed at the foot of Grandpa’s brand new grave—then her memory jogs and releases this long-forgotten fact: “No. Wait. I just remembered that Janet had her own grave. Near Grandpa’s. I remember a small headstone with a bird in flight—as though, one day, Janet had simply flown away.
Still nestling comfortably beside me on the swing, Mom’s memory sweeps over this series of momentous dates: “Grandpa died in July of 1946; I gave birth to Janet several weeks later on September 4th; then she died on November 23rd and …”
“What?” I blurt out, interrupting Mom's musings; my head spins to face her; my foot hits the cool deck; the swing stops with a jolt! “November 23rd?” Oh my God, Mom ... I never knew Janet died on November 23rd! How awful!— 
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