"In my English class."

"We didn't read anything by black writers when I was in high school."

"That's why we had the civil rights movement, Mom. To shake things up and make things right."

"Can you please change this?"

"What would you like to hear?"

"No swearing or screaming. Real music."

I'm grateful when I hear John Mayer. We both like him. Sparrow enjoys her share of hip-hop but she's not big on R&B. It doesn't seem normal to be black and not like soul music. Her top three: Aretha, Otis Redding and Curtis Mayfield. She'll listen to that Matchbox Twenty and Nickelback (whom I also happen to get a kick out of), and those Red Hot Chili Peppers and Fall Out Boy and Coldplay like they're never going to make another album. We both have a soft spot for country music. It's just the blues with a twang. The Dixie Chicks and Kenny Chesney can take my money.

"So what'd you get Grandma for her birthday?" she asks.

"It's a surprise."

"I made her a pair of earrings."

"I hope they're not weird, Sparrow." She makes jewelry. Frightening jewelry. She uses stuff like bark, dust, aluminum foil and broken glass, and I think she glued some old bubblegum and dead flies on a necklace once. Her friends fight over this mess.

"I think she'll like these."

"If she doesn't, you know she'll tell you." I suddenly feel like I've walked into an oven set at five hundred degrees, so I reach over and turn the air up as high as it will go. I fan myself with Dark Angel's poem. Beads of perspiration have magically formed across my forehead. More has started dripping over my eyelids and temples. I absolutely hate this shit and I don't think I can keep going through it for however long it might last. I might have to break down and ask my doctor to give me something to help me get through this. I'm tired of waking up throughout the night, kicking the covers off because I'm burning up, then pulling them back on a few minutes later because I'm freezing. Plus, my memory is failing me. Sometimes it feels like I'm getting Alzheimer's or something. I don't think it's worth going through all this if I don't have to.

"So where does he live?"

"Who?"

"Dark Angel! How soon we forget."

"In Arizona."

"Well, that certainly narrows things down. Mom, turn the air down a little, please. It's freezing in here."

I don't feel like talking about Dark Angel anymore. "Did you save me some gumbo?"

"Of course I did. Aunt Bernie outdid herself again. "Do you have an address for this guy?"

"We haven't gotten that far yet."

"When do you plan on going out with him?" She veers off the pavement onto the gravel and then quickly gets back on. "Sorry."

"Pull over."

"Mom, it's no big deal! You You go over the line sometimes." go over the line sometimes."

"I said pull over."

She just keeps driving. I would like to slap her. That would give me so much pleasure. Just once. Smack her dead in her smart-ass mouth. Of course I wouldn't dare, because she's my daughter.

"How would you like to have a sweet sixteen party?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Why not?"

"Because it is just so uncool. To celebrate turning any age is silly if you just think about it. Except for Grandma, of course. She has earned the right to celebrate every single day of her life if she feels like it. I mean, getting my license is a very big deal, but I think once you pass fifty you have more of a reason to celebrate because you're lucky to still be alive."

"What in the world are you talking about?"

"That came out wrong," she says.

"Anyway, I'm not celebrating turning fifty. And I think I have a few good years left, Sparrow."

"You're going to be a whole half a century old, Mom! How cool is that?"

"Too cool. Now pull over. You've driven fifty miles and apparently that's enough."

"Spoilsport. You're just mad because I peeped your boy. But seriously, Mom, tell him you want to send him something and make sure he doesn't have any numbers behind his name or it's not some post office box. That's how you'll know he doesn't live behind bars."

"Why are you so concerned about him?"

"Because you're my mom and I've already heard one horror story after another about how many losers and wackos you've met online, and of course I've been hoping you'd meet your Lancelot by now, but this guy's poem sounded so desperate I almost felt sorry for him."

"He's been to Iraq twice."

"How old did you say he was?"

"Thirty-eight."

"Isn't that kind of old to be going to war?"

"Pull over, Sparrow. It's the last time I'm going to say it before I grab the steering wheel and turn it myself."

And she does.

I had planned to stop at the outlets in Casa Grande for a hot minute but I don't much feel like shopping now. I get behind the wheel and drive in total silence for the next forty miles. When we get to my mom's assisted-living facility, she's sitting under a gazebo in a wicker chair, out here in all this heat, waiting for us. She's wearing a blue cotton dress with white flowers on it. Her hair is white and fluffy and her skin is a beautiful shade of brown. It's smooth for eighty and wrinkles only show up around her eyes when she smiles. She waves when she sees us.

Sparrow jumps out of the car and runs toward her, bends down and gives her a big hug. "Hi there, sugar pie. Grandma was wondering if you guys were going to be on time. I only have about an hour, you know."

"What?" I ask.

"I told you they were having a birthday party for me and it starts at six, and I can't be late for my own party."

"Are we not invited?"

"I'm afraid not. You needed to RSVP, Robin. They don't really like outsiders to come to our celebrations, because it makes some people sad."

"That doesn't make any sense," Sparrow says.

"Who said it has to make sense?"

"I have something for you, Grandma."

"Did you make it?"

"I did."

"Oh Lord," she says. "You make such unusual things that just don't seem to fit inside my age bracket. Please don't take it the wrong way, sweetheart. Grandma appreciates your talent and your thoughtfulness."

Sparrow pulls a little bag out of her backpack and hands it to her. Like me, Mom has never put on more weight than she needed. I'm still a size ten. She's still a size twelve.

As she begins to unwrap the yellow and blue tissue paper, she looks up at Sparrow, who's in her usual costume. "Why do you dress like that?"

"I can't explain it, Grandma."

"Try."

"Well, it's sort of my way of expressing myself without trying to look like a carbon copy of other people."

"You might want to consider it because you look like you're trying to say so much you're really not saying anything. You dressed better when you were a little girl. I don't mean any harm by this. Oh my," she says, holding up two strands of beaded blue earrings that happen to match her dress. "I like these a lot, sugar pie."

"I tried to tone it down some for you, Grandma."

"I'm glad you did. Can you put them on me, please? I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. If you like the way you look, that's all that matters. Unless you're looking for a job."

Sparrow just laughs. I've already explained to her that when people get older sometimes it's almost as if they have Tourette's. They say whatever comes into their mind, which more often than not is pitch perfect.

Mom looks at her watch and then up at me. "How's that computer dating coming along, Robin? Met any cool cats yet?"

"She met a poet."

"Did she ask you or did she ask me?"

Sparrow hunches her shoulders and blows air inside her cheeks to make them puff out. Sorry. Just having fun Sorry. Just having fun.

"Anyway, Mom, things are looking up and I have a date in a few weeks."

"You didn't tell me you had a date with him, Mom."

"Why is it any of your business? She doesn't need your permission, young lady."

Sparrow keeps her mouth shut. For once.

Mom turns her attention back to me. "A few weeks? What's the holdup?"

"Our schedules are just different."

"Then forget him. Who wants to be bothered with somebody that busy?"

"We'll see. Anyway, happy birthday, Mom." I hand her a small box.

"I wonder what this could be." She opens it, holds the tiny frame up close, sees it's an old photo of her as a little girl. "Where on earth did you get this, Robin?"

"It's my little secret."

"Was it Bessie or Beulah? Which one?"

These are her older sisters who still live in Biloxi. "It was Aunt Bessie."

"Lord, Lord, Lord. I was a cute little something, wasn't I?"

"You still are," Sparrow says.

"You are indeed, Mom." She stands up and I hug her and kiss her on the lips. She smells like talcum powder. She has also shrunk over the years; she used to be taller than me. But she's still alive and she's in good health, for which I am grateful.

"Well, I have to get going," she says, standing up. "It was sweet of you to drive all this way to help me celebrate. I'm very much appreciative, I hope you know that."

"We do, Mom. And have a great party."

"Did I tell you we have a band?"

"No, you didn't."

"All the band members are over seventy!"

"So you guys are going to party hard this evening, huh, Grandma?"

"It's over at eight. It sure would be nice if your dad could come."

"I'm sure he's probably going to be there, Mom."

"You can never be too sure," she says, and waves to us.

I decide to let Sparrow drive all the way home.

Romeo and Juliet bark up a storm until we're both inside. We ate burgers on the way home, so I don't have to worry about dinner. I almost tiptoe into my makeshift office, which is really a small bedroom. I close the door. Login. There are a dozen winks and icebreakers but I'm not interested in opening any of them. I decide to reach out to Dark Angel: Hello there, Dark Angel: Just checking in to see what you're up to. I'm psyched about our finally meeting in a few weeks and wanted to make sure we're still on for coffee. I've also been thinking about your poetry aspirations, which is why I want to send you something before we meet. Would you mind giving me your mailing address? It's not a big deal but I think you might like it. I'm looking forward to hearing back from you. Have you written any more poems?

Ciao!

Tiger Lady a/k/a Robin