I walk through the door and know that I’m in trouble. Staring  at me from below are two sets of eyes, attached to twin girls, expressing a look that feels very familiar. One runs back to her mother while the smaller of the two stands by the door motionless. In about a minute she will begin to slump to the ground and convulse a little in what I think is a bowel movement. It’s not, and as the girls’ mother is changing the other’s diaper, i’m making my way toward her, a child in my arms, fingers becoming damp and wet as pee soaks through the diaper and clothing. In the moments that follow I become accepted into the scene as a main character and not just a prop, as the girl, now on the floor, begins to cry for me to take the wet clothes off her.  I think this is the first time I have changed a diaper on a baby.  I wish I could say that I don’t know what to do but it’s a lie.  The little girl, Ella, does her part by lifting her legs to be wiped down. The only question I have is how snug the diaper is supposed to go on.  It’s one thing having a dog hasn’t taught me.

Why am I here?  It’s sort of a short story that gets long winded the more I think about it.  Out of the blue a moment from my past decided to catch up to the present.

Where do I begin?

I knew her years ago as the girlfriend to an acquaintance.  They broke up (the circumstances and details of which are unknown to me) and shortly thereafter I lost touch with both of them, more or less.

She ran away from New York, found someone else and in a matter of months remarried. It seems like things began to deteriorate and she left what appears to be an abusive situation with two of her three daughters and made her way back east, but I think I’m jumping a little ahead of myself so let me try to tell one story at a time.

We stand outside my car as she offers me a cigarette. I don’t know the wisdom of smoking in front of children but I accept. We don’t talk about anything in particular, five minutes of my life up in smoke.