I don’t remember the moment that I first met Kathleen in person.  I can recall it in Polaroid snapshots of childhood reminiscence, kind gestures and loving words.  Kathy-leen, as I ignorantly called her back then (much to my horror and to her amusement, she didn’t correct me until I graduated high school) would periodically bring up that day in casual conversation and shade in the white spaces of my thought with the pigment of her words like a color-by-number.  Each tincture of her recollection revealed a different aspect of that fortuitous day, until at last I was imbued with a memory romanticized like déjà vu: slightly familiar, beautiful, but not quite real -- like third-party gossip, or realistic fiction -- truth hidden behind exaggerated words and inflated storytelling.  It is a moment of my life seared into my memory and I will treasure it to the end of my days.  

It was the summer of 1985.  I was an 8 year old boy stepping off a yellow school bus and onto the grounds of the San Quentin State Prison.  I had just finished a weekend conjugal visit with my father and, as a last good-bye, the prison staff held a picnic for the families of convicts.  Everything was normal, except for the massive barbwire fences towering like petrified redwoods over concrete cages.   Prison officers dressed in their finest green uniforms stood watch from iron guard towers like an Old Testament God eagerly waiting to smite us down with AK-47’s at the first sight of forbidden sin: a prolonged kiss by a lonely wife to her guilty husband, an elderly mother’s forgiving hand memorizing her son’s proud face for possibly the last time, a young boy unwilling to pry his knotted legs from his father’s tight embrace.  These were all punishable by a swift shot to the head.  Four days earlier, I walked in deference to the rules shouted at me by an angry blond woman with a boy's crew cut as she padded my butt for weapons.  She convinced me that any egregious error on my part would galvanize unremitting guards into firing bullets into my coifed black hair that was slicked to the side in a fine part and fossilized with Aqua Net hairspray.  It was a fate more terrible than my impending puberty.  After four days, I was inured to the rudiments of prison life.  It helped that I had made a friend with a guard or two and my father was well liked and much respected.  All I wanted was to be in my father’s arms once again, to absorb every last moment of his attention.  After all, I was three years old the last time I had seen my father dragged by policemen into the back of a black and white police car, down the streets of our housing projects and into a faded memory.  Over the next five years, I had placed this man on a pedestal.  He was my Mexican kingdom come.  

But stepping off the bus, I realized that those final moments with my dad would not be mine alone.  It was compulsory that I should have to share it with the white woman standing next to my father in a floral chiffon dress which proudly danced over the gentle curves of her fit body.  I was struck by her natural beauty.  She had eyes the color of emeralds that sparkled at the slightest movement of light.  They were surrounded by a gentle wave of shoulder-length chestnut hair that was a perfect frame for the ivory smile that splashed across the soft clay of her inimitable face.   I hated her instantly.   Kathleen’s reputation preceded her.  I can recall, a year before, hearing about a beautiful woman that had become the object of my father’s attention.  My curious ears often found the company of thin wooden doors to receive the words protruding from incessant mouths that masticated in hushed whispers behind closed doors.  Silence would follow my entry into any room where adults pretended to converse about anything other than this new woman in my father’s life.  I knew something was up;  I was smarter than they gave me credit for.  They were just too afraid to tell me.  That, or they knew that I was the family parrot.  I would repeat anything that I heard with deadly accuracy.  People had learned their lesson.  If you didn’t want the truth spoken, keep it away from Gabe.  I picked up bits and pieces of conversations like broken shells under white sands.  What I had eventually come to piece together was that my father had been seeing a woman that he met as a pen pal, and she had renewed his faith in God and in life.  She was transforming him from the inside out.  The relationship was serious, but Gabriel couldn’t find out!  

Too late.  

I was determined to hate my father’s muse at all costs, if only out of respect for my mother.  Kathleen stepped towards me.  “Hello Gabriel.  It’s so nice to meet you.  I have heard so much about you.”   I wanted to tell her to shut up.  I hated her.  But I didn’t have the gumption to intrude on my father.  He had an ubiquitous presence, and even without looking at him, I could feel his eyes burrowing into the side of my head. I heard stories of how he castigated others when he was displeased.  Although I didn’t believe it, I didn’t want to chance it.
 “Hi,” I replied in my best prepubescent voice.  The crack in my tone made her smile, and her soft hand glided between my shoulder blades and guided me into a firm embrace.  She smelled like sweet vegetables and clean laundry.  My arms reciprocated, and my mouth rebelled against the frown on my face, stubbornly parting to reveal slightly yellow teeth beneath a tight grin.  The ice in my heart melted.  Attention from my father?  Who needed it in the presence of this beautiful woman!  

Kathleen took my small brown hand into her cool palm and led me towards the wooden benches.  A slight breeze moved off the San Francisco Bay and frolicked passed my hairless legs that kicked at it nervously under the table.  “I brought something for you,” she said.  Me?  She had only known me for a minute and was already giving me gifts.  Score!  She removed plastic wrap from a white clay bowl.  The smell tickled at my nose and I knew immediately that it was guacamole.  My favorite!  My hands flew for the open bag of organic chips.  I wanted to hate it out of respect for my mom but my childhood voracity couldn’t prevent my arm from plunging her delicious goodness into my greedy mouth.  Chip after piled chip prevented any discussion from taking place and my father had to swat my hand away like busy mosquitoes.  She was beaming! I immediately loved this woman.  My mom would just have to suck it up.  There was no turning back.  

I don’t remember what we talked about in the short minutes that followed, but I fell head over heels for her.  She made me laugh.  She made me feel safe.  She inspired me.  She asked if she could write me and I felt my heart ricochet throughout my torso.  After we said our goodbyes, I stepped on the bus and made my way down the lonely isle of green plastic seats. I felt as if I had known her forever.  My hand reached up to touch the clear glass window.  My love wasn’t just aimed at my father anymore…my heart had opened to encompass Kathleen.  My dad wrapped his arm around her.  There was no more jealousy in my heart.  She reciprocated with a gentle hand around his waist, but she never took her eyes off of me.  Both waived goodbye.  As my hand touched a cool window, rivulets of heartbreak made saltwater tracks down the curves of my chubby cheeks.  Kathleen never stopped smiling, never stopped waving.  As the bus engine rumbled to life and moved its way through the mouth of the valley, they were still standing side by side, eyes on my window, eyes towards my future.  

I received a letter from Kathleen a week later in perfect penmanship, and once a month for the next ten years.  I saved them all in a pleather three-ringed binder that I hid under my grandmother’s bed.  Mom wouldn’t know of the orthographic affair that I would carry on with this new woman in my father’s life until years later, after she had recovered from a fifteen-years long heroin addiction, she found the binder, long forgotten, resting in a torn box under the same bed. She realized that Kathleen’s words were railroad tracks that lead me out of the dark moments in my life.  They were a lighthouse that guided me through rough waters; her gentle, healing words lead me through the chaos of adolescence.  They were the beacon that ushered me through the confusion of early adulthood.  They were my symbol of hope as I became entrenched in the reality of adoptive fatherhood.  Through her words she became my mentor, my writing teacher, my art teacher, my life coach.  My mother was indebted to Kathleen.  She realized that, over the years, Kathleen had become my third mother  

In the last six months, I lost my mother and grandmother.  I reached out to Kathleen for comfort, as I have done many times in my life. I can still hear her words: “They’ve never left you, Gabriel.  They’re around you always, loving you, guiding you.  You just have to stop and feel them.”  

I breathe in those words even now for comfort.  I feel her near, sashaying across space and time to the rhythm of Salsa music, her floral chiffon dress swaying in waves across her new and healthy body, a smile painted across her radiant face, her emerald eyes reflecting her eternal dance with God.

I want to dance myself free through constant expression of joy, pain, love, sorrow, anxiety, wonderment...want to embrace it all, not stopping to judge, play mental racquetball. There's no time to wait, no time to look back. Bring it forth, sing it out, dance it free!

Last night the dervishes whirled in ecstasy. My heart turned, spun, surrendered with them into the Divine dance, free from illusion, no longer separated from Love.

I want to whirl through all of it--the fear, frustration of writer's block, the hesitation to dance, to paint, to break free. Whirl through all of it with a heart spinning in ecstatic love, embracing it all. 

Most of my memories of Noorunisa relate to food.  We first met at New Age Natural Foods in the Sunset District of San Francisco in the late sixties.  This was San Francisco’s FIRST natural foods store & we both were happy to be working there because of our mutual interest in eating well. 

 As I learned more about wholesome foods I began to create dessert recipes using whole wheat pastry flour & natural sweeteners such as maple syrup & stevia.  When I found out that Nisa couldn’t eat conventional desserts because of all their refined sugar I decided to make her a birthday dessert according to her needs.  That’s where the tradition began and for many years we would collaborate on a recipe she could enjoy without health repercussions. 

 As I look back on the recipes, often repeated,  I see a Fruit “Cheesecake” (made with coconut milk), an Almond Pear Tart, an Amazake Pie, an Apple Tart, an Almond Coconut Fruit Tart, a Berry Tart, a Pumpkin Tart and a Lemon Chiffon Pie.  This is how I became known to some of her family & friends as the “Pie Lady.”

 Whoever said that someone who gives,  RECEIVES much more in return  is right on according to my experience.  Nisa’s  pleasure & enormous gratitude at these simple desserts were such a joy to me and, as if that weren’t enough,  working on these desserts inspired my creativity &  helped to make me a more versatile baker.

 Some of you may know that Nisa had a long standing love affair with Meyer Lemons.  For those of you not “in the know” there are two types of lemons commonly sold commercially: Eurekas and Meyers.  Meyers have a smoother skin and a delicious mellow, not too tart, flavor, but are not always available.  When Nisa moved into the convalescent home I asked her if there was some food item I could bring her and the unequivocal answer was “Lemon Chiffon Tart.” 

 I checked with several stores and was told Meyer Lemons were out of season and unavailable and I began to think I might not be able to fulfill her request which was a disheartening prospect.  But as a last resort I went on the website for the retirement community I live in and said “Does anybody have Meyer Lemons?  I need about 6 for a special recipe,” & left my phone number.

 The next day the calls started coming in . . . Virgit called and said she had some in her freezer.  When I went to pick them up she told me about living in Germany during the War when fruit was unavailable and how since then she always tried to preserve some by freezing.  Then Frank called and drove by and dropped off a large bag.  Unfortunately, though his heart was in the right place, he didn’t know the difference between Eurekas & Meyers.   Then Vince called & when I walked to his house I saw a lovely garden that could have been featured in “Better Homes & Gardens” & it included a Meyer Lemon bush still bearing fresh  juicy lemons. 

 When I delivered the Lemon Chiffon tart Nisa was delighted and immediately began savoring it.  Her pleasure was so gratifying and as I left the convalescent home I reflected that once again I had received more than I had given:   thanks to her I had made the acquaintance of three wonderful neighbors and not only that I now had a new name:  “The Lemon Lady.”