What is one mistake made by the current generation that you would like to make sure that your generation does not repeat?

Only a few days before she died, my grandmother described to me the sound of crickets.  The idea of them, however, terrified me, and my mother scolded my grandmother for telling me stories.  Grandma was Buddha, and smiled, knowing.  I knew, too.

If you had amnesia and were granted only one thing to write down from your memory, what would you write?

I'm not positive my grandmother knew who I was, but she always smiled and patted my hands just like she used to, so I don't think it mattered.  My mother didn't like to visit the nursing home.  She had a phobia about any hospital-like place combined with an acute sense of smell, so Mom was always dancing on her toes, edging towards the exit whenever we visited.  Gram was always nice.  Always friendly.  Always.  Except in my mother's tales of her childhood.  I wondered if that's the way it always went: time mellows all.

Gram was in the hallway, lined up against the wall with three other old people in their wheelchairs, too.  At least, in the wheelchairs of the moment.  Nothing is permanent in a nursing home.  Nobody owns anything exclusively.  The clothing you came with finds it way to other people, and you appear dressed in a sweater you never saw before, but, of course, in this ward, it didn't matter.  Nobody remembered.  Not only wheelchairs and clothing, but glasses and even teeth traveled.  Nothing, especially memory, was permanent.

I knelt by Gram's chair to be at eye level and let her know I was there.  I knew we wouldn't stay long as Mom already had her hand over her nose.  The other old people in the chairs made noises and looked in our general direction.  "Hi, Gram, it's June."

Gram turned her dark brown eyes, ringed with the blue of age, and smiled, her front tooth missing.  That was new.  Gram's hands were still strong and, even now, warmer than mine.  "So cold!"  Maybe not even remembering I was her granddaughter, Gram still chafed my hands in hers to warm them.

"You look good, Gram," I smiled.  She did.  They'd given her a haircut that she'd never chosen, but that suited her.  Nobody in a nursing home got the perm or color they used to get.

Gram looked down at my arms across the afghan in her lap and said, "You're so white!"

"Yeah, I know," I said.  "It runs in the family."

What do you look for in a role model?

In Grand Park's Magician's Corner, mages were allowed to busk, license prominently displayed, of course.  Licenses were cheap, but not easy to come by as there were a limited number given each season.  Auditions were held every year, and everyone had to reapply, even the veteran performers.  Sometimes they didn't get in.  Competition was fierce for those spots, and some years, fights broke out in the audition lines.  Magicians were known to have disappeared after not getting in, too.  Sometimes they reappeared other years, and sometimes... they performed the ultimate vanishing act.

Holly loved to take her lunch breaks from Nova, the upscale clothier, in Magician's Corner.  Grand Park was only a five minute walk from Nova, which was in line with the other major clothiers on Parkview Avenue.  She was a relatively new salesgirl in Gloves, brought on when Messiah Blanchett wore long, elegant gloves to King's Court.  Messiah was always fashion-forward.  But Holly had been coming here far longer than her most recent job.  Her grandfather had been Maurice and Magnificent, back in the day, and performed here in his youth, before he hit the big times, which was decades before Holly was even a glimmer in her parents' eyes.  She had adored Papa Maury and followed him like a puppy.  Holly learned a lot about magic, the art of performance, and magicians.  She still kept in touch with most of them, and they waved or said hello or stopped by to show off their most recent creations when she sat on the steps of Benedict's Statue to eat her bagged lunch.

Today was the third day, however, that Holly came with butterflies in her stomach, hoping to catch a glimpse of a new magician.

Pageant Question: Which constitutional freedom do you value most as an American?

"Freedom of religion," whispered Grandfather, "means freedom from religion."

"Hush, Papa!  You don't want to be heard."

"Now, Mother, we're safe in this shelter.  I've made sure of it."

Grandmother still worried, but she went to the pantry to pull together dinner.  The cans and pots hitting the counter too hard meant she was angry.  At the time, I thought it was because she thought Grandfather was careless, which he never was, but now I know she was scared for me and for my brother Matthew, who was a year younger.  She was afraid we'd repeat what Grandfather told us and get us all killed.  We were only eight and nine, but we knew the stakes, and so did Grandfather.

Pageant Question: What is the strangest food you have ever tried? Did you like it?

The side-by-side duplex was built in the late 1800s, and Franco's grandparents were the first occupants.  He only had vague memories of his grandfather, whom he remembered with a touch of fear, not based on any interaction he himself had, but because of the stories his mother told, usually involving the man's belt.  His grandmother, however, Franco remembered clearly since she was still in a nursing home.

Both Carmella and Enzo were straight off the boat from Italy when they bought the duplex using all the money they had in the world.  Enzo was a skilled craftsman, a cabinetmaker, and Carmella would make wedding cakes in the basement with her sisters, who lived next door.  The basement kitchen was well-equipped and usually covered with flour and sugar as the women baked nearly every single day.

Eventually, Carmella's sisters died, spinsters.  Enzo died relatively young of a heart attack.  Carmella would live, and live, and live through it all, basking in her suffering.  Franco's mother and father lived in the spinsters' side, next to his aging grandmother.  His father would equip a downstairs closet with a toilet once Carmella stopped being able to climb the stairs.  The house began to smell.  It was a glorious day for Franco when his grandmother was dragged away to the nursing home.

Franco was charged with cleaning up his grandmother's side of the duplex.  Clearing out all the paintings of Jesus, the Rosaries hanging from every corner, the urine-soaked clothing left to moulder on the second floor his grandmother hadn't been able to reach in years.

The basement still had the kitchen, though it had been unused since the late 50s.  Carmella never allowed her grandson down there, and Franco took great joy in exploring what had been forbidden.  He was the one who found the wine cellar filled with jars of old sauce, made from the original recipe handed down the generations, jars of moldy peaches, and a six pack of Utica Club beer.

Pageant Question: Which freedom do you value the most: life, liberty, or the pursuit of happiness? When do you think these rights should be taken away from a person?

People officially started calling the neighborhoods "Camps" when I was eight, but they were already camps long before I was born.  My family has been living in the same Camp for five generations.  Fences went up in my great-grandmother's time, and my grandmother was the one who told me the history.

Grandma Nonna, at eighty, was the oldest person in our Camp.  Life expectancy was in the sixties, so Grandma Nonna was revered for her age and wisdom.  She told me that when the Camps were "neighborhoods", the houses stood shoulder to shoulder, and only family owned each house.  A single family lived inside.  Grandparents lived in their own homes.  Aunts and uncles had others.  The use of so much space for just four people seemed outrageously decadent to me.

When she was small, Grandma Nonna said there were still roads and even some cars in her neighborhood.  Once she told me about roads and where they used to be, I would wander our Camp and look for signs.  I found hidden curbs and even, what she called, a "manhole cover".  That sounded dirty.  I found a rock that she said was probably rubble from a road.  I carry it with me.

Pageant Question: What have you done to make a difference in someone's life in the past three days?

Jesse had always believed he had a guardian angel.  His grandmother had been the one to introduce the concept.  Jesse's parents hadn't been all that religious, but Grandma Jean sure was.  She hung the crucifix in his room.  She gave him his first rosary.  She taught him how to pray before bed.  And she was the reason he thought his good luck came from a guardian angel.  His grandmother didn't know Jesse talked to Max every night, and sometimes when the days got a little rough.  His grandmother, who died before Jesse graduated high school, also wouldn't know that at age 29, Jesse still believed.  Not even "believed"; Jesse knew.

346

Self-delusion is humanity's most dreadful superpower.  When truth is undesirable, humans cling to lies.  When reality is unpleasant, humans hide behind facades.  When change is inevitable, humans close their eyes and lay dead, unmoving, unmovable.  Strip away the delusion and bare yourself to the universe.

"Does it hurt?" asked Nicco.  Midway through the conversation with his Grandpa Frank, Nicco had dropped his Matchbox car, wheels up on the carpet.

"Yes."  Grandpa Frank never sugarcoated.  "Truth is worth the pain."

319

Three sisters, standing one behind the other at an angle to the camera, from youngest in the front to oldest in the back.  Their old fashioned glasses and stiff hairdos make them look older than they are, which is, perhaps, in their early thirties.  The youngest, with a rounder, fuller face, is smiling.  The older two are not.  The oldest, however, has a twinkle in her eyes, which, even in a black and white photo, are clearly blue.  The middle sister's gaze is begrudging, forceful, maybe even angry, though I know the look is hiding an irrational fear of having her picture taken, a fear that will build into a phobia to add to an increasing pile of phobias and obsessions.  It is the oldest sister who is my grandmother.

301

My grandmother told me they used to laugh at people in Asian countries for wearing surgical masks in public.  I asked why, and she explained about the newness of an ever-changing and ever-more-potent flu season and about the recognition of carbon pollution, but what I meant was why did they laugh?  Later, when I got to think about it, I guess it was because only people in Asian countries wore them.  I never really thought about it much, since only uncivilized people don't wear masks.

I was always Grandma Briella's favorite because I would unplug just for her.  I feel guilty about it now because sometimes I didn't; I only said I unplugged, but I never thought she'd notice.  Thinking back, I'm sure she noticed.  Grandma Briella noticed a lot, even when she didn't always call me by the right name.

276

The phone was getting hot against James' ear and he kept glancing at the clock.  This phone call to his mother was supposed to be short.  A quick question, a clear answer, and off to shopping, but these conversations were never short.  James closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.

"I'm trying to convince your father to sell this place."

James' eyes flicked open.  "What?  Why?  I..."

"What would happen if one or both of us had to go to a nursing home?'

"Nursing home?  You..."

"They make you spend all your money and then the put you on Medicaid.  It would all disappear.  They'd take it all.  Plus, it's so much work for your father.  Ever since he had The Incident, he hasn't been quite right."

"What do you mean?  Is Dad..."

"He forgets things.  Your grandmother, God bless her, was showing symptoms of dementia for years; symptoms I didn't recognize at the time, but they were there."

James rubbed his forehead.  "Are you saying that Dad has demen..."

"He asked me what temperature to set the thermostat for bed, and he knows that."

"Well, that's not..."

"Whenever I mention selling, all I get is silence, anyway.  I'll keep working on him."

270

It was the folded pieces of washed tinfoil in her dead grandmother's kitchen pantry that put Samantha over the edge.  Picturing how her grandmother had used, rinsed and carefully put away the tinfoil for a future time she would never see caused Sam to burst into tears.  Even the word "tinfoil" was her grandmother's; her own mother teased her for using such an old-fashioned word for "aluminum foil".  Sunk to the floor holding the folded pieces, Sam cried and, in an oddly detached way, thought about why it made her so sad.  Missing her grandmother?  Certainly.  There were always loving words and compliments unsaid, questions unasked.  She cried for herself.  No, she thought, she cried for humans.  Humans who lived as if they would continue to live forever.  Humans who set aside for the future.  Humans who had plans in the calendar.  Humans who had saved candles because they were too nice to burn for any "regular" occasion and waited, unburned, perhaps forever.

251

Today is the day that my grandmother died.  She was 97 and was born in 1917.  We all knew it was coming, but, still.

It makes me sad I didn't get to see her one last time.  That the last time I saw her was the one last time, though it was a good visit.  Gram patted my hand and looked at my arm and said, "You are so white."  I said, "Thanks, Gram.  It runs in the family, you know."  I'm not sure she knew who I was, but Gram was always friendly and happy.  Always happy.  Always smiling.  Gram didn't always live a smooth life, but she still came out happy.  I try to remember that when I hear myself whining or getting ready to be snippy.

I love you, Gram.

185

Celia worked for minimum wage in a relatively new nursing home, serving and clearing meals.  It was tiring, on-your-feet work, but more than that, it tired her brain.  She didn't like thinking about death, and it hung about the place like cobwebs on forgotten boxes in the corner of an attic.  Celia thought she didn't like death, but, in truth, she didn't like the ruin of the body and the draining of the mind.  It made her remember her own grandmother, which always made her sad.  Every day she wondered why she ever went in to the place, and every day was another day still there until weeks and months had passed.

She found the residents simultaneously frightening, pitiful, and unbearably strong.  They stayed alive in bodies she would have abandoned long ago.  They lived on without hope, which Celia thought would have killed her in itself.  Perhaps she had it wrong, though, and a knock on a dinner table hinted at her misconceptions.

181

I know what I will look like when I am old.  My eyes have acquired time travel, and I can see it.  I can see the skin, thinning and wrinkling into a thousand tiny creases on my face, my arms, my legs, my belly.  I can see my bones protruding, knuckles swelling, muscles weakening.  My skin is discolored with age spots, nicks and scars, and is blue with veins and bruises.  My shoulders roll forward and I will move stiffly and sit, one arm stiff, one hip raised.  I see my friends and family deteriorating faster and faster.  Buildings age before my eyes even faster than the humans.  I see other things, too.  Things I don't understand and that don't seem to concern me.  I know these are the things I will shake my gray head at, careful not to turn too far.  The eyes of my mind see through future time, too, and I can see how it will turn back to the memories of my past.  I know which experiences I will recount over and over.  I know what I will regret and what I will cherish.  Time travel is heavy.  It weighs on a body.  My eyes get a far-away look that has nothing to do with vagueness of sight or cataracts.  It is time travel.

158

"Cranberry Hills!" cried Grandpa, startling us all at the breakfast table.  "That's where I left it!"  Grandpa went back to eating, but Mom was to embarrassed to enjoy any more of her cereal.  I wasn't nearly so sensitive; to me, this is the way Grandpa always was.  He thought about things left undone and when he finally remembered, it bubbled up and out.  Saying things out loud has a way of making them more permanent; I understood this.  I did it myself, but I could usually control the outburst if I wasn't alone.

"What did you leave, Grandpa?"  Mom glared at me with the look that said, Don't encourage him, but I really wanted to know.  After all, whether Mom acknowledged it or not, Grandpa was the most interesting member of our family.

108

Eventually, you will be forgotten. Harsh, yes, but a reality you should face: you will be forgotten. Everyone who truly knew you by name will die. Your grandparents, your pets, your parents, your aunts and uncles, your older cousins, your younger cousins, your brothers and sisters all will die. If you have children, they may die; they may even "die of old age" before you. Your friends will all die. You will make more, but the further on in life you go, the faster those new friends will die. No one will be left who could say the color of your eyes. No one will be left who remembers the color of your hair. No one will be left to recognize your voice.
 
Once there is no one left who remembers you, how will you view yourself? Senility is a possibility, but it's not guaranteed. You remember you. You remember all those who loved you and are now gone. You remember the teen heartthrob you mooned over, long dead and unrecognized in conversation for decades. Your favorite things, the things you saved for, the things you wanted but couldn't afford, you can't find anymore. Nobody even remembers what they were used for. Forgotten. Just like you.
 
How do you view yourself? There is no one who shares your memories, your likes and dislikes. Who are you?
 
You are a time-traveler.

56

When I was ten my grandfather went insane and killed my mother. My father was some sort of transient who had raped my mother near the tracks. He was most likely insane, too.

At this point in my story, only three sentences long, you may be thinking, "Oh, her poor mother." Don't think that, because she was also insane. While most people truly aren't "asking for it", she was. Literally. She walked the tracks hoping to find a transient who would rape her. She knew my grandfather was unstable and continued to goad him. She even handed him the knife.

Now I'm on my third paragraph and maybe you're thinking, "Oh, that poor girl." This time you're right. Poor me. I'm only sixteen, and I am waiting for the insanity bomb to drop. Any second now. Genetics cannot be avoided. As sure as my eyes are hazel and my hair is blond and my knees are knobby, I will go insane.

26

Cabot Geheim took a room at the boarding house in the broken town of Trostlos the day after the reading of his grandfather's will. A bored, stumpy woman showed him his room, but Cabot was too excited to even notice there was no private bath. Not that he would have complained; his stay was to be as temporary as possible. The Boarder's Haven merely provided convenient access to his inheritance: Geheim Manor.

16

Jerome didn't find his grandmother fascinating. He found her old and smelly and boring. He hated visiting, but his mother always dragged him along. She even made him dress up. "What for?" he would ask. "It's not like it's church or something."

"Don't sass, just button your shirt right and tuck it in neatly." His mom was a stickler for looking neat when dressed up. He was afraid that someday she might make him iron his own clothes. He was, after all, twelve now, and she was already making him learn to cook.

"What for?" he asked. "Ain't I going to have a wife?" That earned him a slap. Despite the painful start, Jerome was actually becoming quite a good cook. His grandmother, however, was not.

"What if she tries to make me eat one of her sassafras cookies? I don't like those awful cookies. Can't I tell her no?"

"No. You cannot. You will eat two to be polite, and you will not attempt to feed any to Beautiful. That dog was sick for a week. Tie your shoes."