Dear Wigleaf,

Since I squandered the money from my mother, I haven't had much to say. But here goes, anyway.

That time in Lisbon when I fell in love with a fado singer. That time the flickering candles made a younger woman of me ... and the grieving me who'd traipsed around Europe, catching trains, missing trains and missing my mother most of all, was gone. That time I fixated on a portly man singing at a café his black cape flung open, love and anguish pouring forth. That time the fado singer bowed at our table, flourished a CD featuring his songs, an unflattering photo of himself on the cover. That time I smiled at him. That time my husband said, steady on, that time my husband told Antonio I didn't want to buy his CD and waved him away, that time I slipped away outside, gave the fado singer all my money, that time I went inside the Sé de Lisboa, got down on my knees, lit a hundred votive candles, told my mother I was sorry, so very sorry.

Yours, Frankie