Ten years after she died, my mother told me to get my hair done. The psychic- my friend Wendy - narrowed her eyes, confused. “Get your hair done?” she questioned. Apparently her other ghosts were not offering fashion advice. I was taken aback as well. It wasn’t the advice I expected to hear upon leaping off the cliff to proclaim myself a writer. And venturing to my first writers’ conference. Where Dad had taught for 20 years until he died. No, definitely not what I expected to hear. Mother was a poet, after all. A poet? Mother was a poem. A luminous and translucent expression that brings you to tears when you finally understand. “Your dad’s here too.” I was relieved at Wendy’s announcement. Surely he would have something more "writerly" to say. But no, mother was still talking. “Pay close attention to the details of your clothes.” It was precise. Not “dress well.” Not “wear clean underwear.” Pay close attention to the details of your clothes. It was perfectly crafted: the poet attending to the details, the mother attending to the clothes. I see her staring out at me from a photo. She’s sitting next to Dad in front of the Miramar Hotel pool, his broad shoulder covering hers. Her face is hidden behind large dark sunglasses, which protect her sensitive eyes from the sun and her sensitive spirit from life. She’s wearing a purple sundress that I had made for her. I wonder if she had been as proud to announce its origin, as I had been to see her wearing it. “Your parents are both here, Dawn. But your mother has something else to say.” Wendy’s voice drew me back to the present. I decided to take notes. If mother was talking

this much, and Dad was mute, it must be important. She would see my panic. I’m about to step out into their territory. Their friends. His students. She would save me, the way she tried to save every lost child who crossed her path. She would gently guide me as I made my timid way through the waiting minefield. I got the message about the hair and clothes. Now tell me what to do. “Your mother,” Wendy continued, “wants you to make a statement. Wear red, put a feather in your hair and strut in there like an heiress.” I dropped my pen and stopped breathing. There’s the granddaddy of all impossible parental expectations. And by the way, Dad, you’re not off the hook. I see your fingerprints all over this one. Why are you hiding? He had left me for her ten years ago. Was he deserting me again? He knows I’m headed to an event he helped to create. His humor and wisdom will permeate the air like the scent of the jasmine he’d planted in our front yard. Many of those I’ll meet will look in my eyes and see his. With chocolate brown skin and chiseled features, he always perched his six-foot frame on the edge of his desk when he taught. Women flocked around him before class, eager for his attention. Men lingered afterwards, attracted by his vigor. In any crowded room his laughter boomed, turning heads and piquing curiosity. “Wendy, I thought you said they’re both here.” Wendy cocked her head, listening. “Your father,” she said solemnly, “will make his appearance at the conference. This audience is too small.” -- Dawn Downey (Creative nonfiction first place winner, 2005 Santa Barbara Writers Conference.)