I am a baby in a crib. I am very afraid. A person comes and stands looking at me. It's one of my parents, but I don't know which one because they have a sack over their head (see drawing). I am screaming in terror because I'm afraid I'll be hurt or thrown out the window. It's leaning toward me. Then I somehow realize that if I smile and am charming, I'll be safe. So I coo and smile and the parent relaxes and I am not in danger. But I still feel the fear under the mask of "charm." It's a heavy burden to never be what you really feel. Now I'm grown up and going downstairs. I see lots of my relatives in the kitchen. They want me to help open the window, a big square thing that opens toward you, like in school. It's over the sink. I have to use a tall stick to reach the opening at the top, and then as it opened, it got kind of wobbly and I had to balance it carefully. Big preparations are going on around me. My mother is dressed up in special "going to church" clothes. The foods are rich and plentiful, quite party-like, not the usual fare; like a big family reunion dinner, only better. I am aware of my informal clothes. I ask my mother what's going on. She says, "We're getting ready to divide up Grandma Mildred and Pa Lloyd's things." I ask if everyone will be there, even Aunt Millie. "Oh yes," she says. "Aunt Millie said she'd be here later." We go to the dining room and look for our place tags. I see mine with the package of my "portion" of things. It's a plastic bag like a sandwich bag. I open it to see four baby outfits in it. I'm a little disappointed. I look again to see they're changed, to four bras. Then I see a picture of Aunt Millie when she was in high school. I see only half of her face and I say, "She looks angry" (see drawing).