As I looked at my small freckled hands, I remembered another set of freckled hands, not so small, rather durable, that belonged to the woman who taught me most of my alteration methods. Juanita was a red haired lady of middle height and medium weight. She had a mild Southern drawl, hailing from Kentucky. She always wore polyester gabardine pants in some dark hue, and a white smock top over her blouse. Juanita was my boss until she sold the shop to concentrate on another store in a different town.

Initially, she was quite eager to teach me her knowledge and was happy to have an eager student in me. But she grew irascible as time went by. Perhaps the difficulties of managing two stores had grown too much for her. Where would she be now? Juanita was in her sixties then, so she'd be an old lady by now.

With that memory, my thoughts to the other ladies at that shop. Barb, Juanita's successor, died a few years after I'd moved to Arizona. My mother sent me the obituary, cancer, it was, that took her. She was a silver haired heavy sit woman of vigorous constitution. Or so I'd believed at the time. She might have been battling cancer even then, unbeknownst to me. But she was usually of optimistic mood and pleasant spirits.

The other ladies would all be in their seventies by now. Lois was a chatty one. She made me a crocheted blanket I still have. It's on the back of our sofa now. She'd asked me my favorite color, and I answered 'turquoise'. So two shades of turquoise alternate with brown, tan, ivory and navy. I wonder if she crochets any more, and how her daughter is. Her daughter suffered from epilepsy, though her attractive appearance gave no hint of it.

Frieda was a short lady with curly gray hair. She favored those polyester gabardine pants as well. She liked country and western music because 'it told a story'. But I did not, and the radio usually stayed set to the mellow light pop station. She'd be amused to know that I listen to country at work now. There is no mellow station. The pop station has too many rap songs spicing its airplay to be suitable for the older ladies.

So I'm gaining an appreciation for the country and western game. Really, quite a few of the songs aren't bad. One called ''I Miss My Friend'' makes me think of Laura:

Yes, when I worked at the little shop back in Joliet, I had no idea I'd meet Laura and end up in Arizona. Though I expressed my affinity for the region with pictures of cactus on the wall near my sewing machine and I had a real cactus at home. I figured it was 'easy-care'.

I gave it to my Mother when I left. I wonder, does she still have it? It would be quite sizeable by now.

I wonder what the old town looks like, by now. I haven't seen it since a brief visit in 1994 for my Dad's funeral. My Mother tells me it is quite different than I remember it. Indeed, both Tucson and Casa Grande changed alot during our stays there.

Yuma, too, I know will change, as well. Why did I think of Juanita today? I haven't thought about her in years. I hope she is well, but this, I know, is subject to such change.

I awoke to find a note on the computer desk:

I've just finished the book, A Cry To Heaven, by Anne Rice. Wow, what a satisfying book that was! It ended 'happy at last', for which I'm happy. After reading of the tall, long limbed Tonio, I look at my tall, long limbed Julia, illumined by light above, making a light halo edge around her head, downturned, as she is reading. Always, she is at the Latin.

Crickets outdoors have risen in song to join our bathtub cricket. I am glad of their music on this night BEFORE . . .

After finding a few, I then browsed the rest of that disc. I found an old photo of Laura from February 2000. We'd gone to the gem and mineral show at the Tucson Convention Center. I was on the floor below, where all the tables of vendors were laid out in neat paths. Laura was up above, looking through the wall of windows, observing the busy scene below:

And the tears began to flow. I reached home safely, and landed on the sofa with Julia. I let myself wail, almost lost in that far despair, but for the touch of Julia's hand, like a tether, keeping me from wandering too far away.

And I cried. I cried to music which, too, spoke of grief. I cried while I held Julia's hand, and I cried. Sobbing great tears, while the singer spoke of grief, I cried.

Finally spent, I laid with Julia on the bed, and listened to yet another singer sing their songs of timeless lament. It had oddly been a rich night.