The babysitter is in the kitchen. I think she’s sitting at the table, reading the paper and smoking a cigarette, but the door is closed so I am not sure. I am in the next room, the living room. I am smiling. I lovingly arrange my mother’s pink polyester nightgown on my little rocking chair. It’s her favorite nightgown and so when I am lonely for her I take it out of her dresser and I spend time with it. Its sleeves are slippery and so over and over I have to put them back on the arms of the rocking chair, but I don’t mind. The babysitter comes into the room and tries to ask me questions about the nightgown but I don’t speak to her. I am thinking only of my mother. I scoop the nightgown up in my arms and I’m giving her a hug. I push my face into it and I am cuddling her. I drag it around the room by an arm and I’m holding her hand. And we dance together to Kenny Rogers on the radio.