A Wish for Ashley

I think it was on our third date that Boyfriend asked, “do you ski?” Before I could filter my un-PC response I heard myself say “black people don't ski.” A flash of confusion crossed his face (had I told him I was mixed race before that date? Don't think so... whoops) but he quickly recovered and moved on. Now, I know that generalizations are, generally, not good for society. Too many misconceptions, too much of a tendency for people to map the trait of one minority individual onto the entire minority group. But, truly, in the same way you could say 'white people don't use hair relaxer,' the skiing generalization fits for most- but, disclaimer: not all- African-American individuals.

Granted I'm mixed, but when it comes to hair, swimming, dancing and skiing, I think its fair to say I am culturally African-American.   My hair takes one hour, a quarter bottle of Morrocan oil, a blow dryer and a 450 degree flat iron to look half way tame, I can't swim (it's hard to when you're doing everything in your power to make sure that hair doesn't get wet), I will dance for hours, and I fear skis. Who in the world wants to stick two sleds onto their feet and throw themselves doing an icy hill while battling the elements?!   Well, Boyfriend, apparently. And Kayla's husband too. So after days of plotting, they convinced Kayla and I to come out with them to ski. An hour and a half in the car, a psych-up hot chocolate and a freezing cold trek across the Cannon Mountain parking lot later, Boyfriend, Boyfriend's brother and my braided into submission half-black head, met Greg and my sister's- coincidentally- braided half-black head at the base of a freezing cold mountain. Oh goody.

Kayla and I bid goodbye to the boys with their aspirations of going to the very top of the below zero mountain and trekked over to the building marked Rentals. The first employee we encountered handed us a rental form and asked us to “rate” the type of skier we were. Type I: Downhill, controlled, recreational skier. Type II: More aggressive recreational skier. Type III: Expert. Our half-black selves had one, obvious question for the employee. “Is there a Type Zero?"

Onto the boot rentals. Sixteen year old boys with nametags and, therefore, authority, measured our feet and asked about our preferences. “I prefer boots that, on their own, will know how to ski.” He raised an eyebrow, and clipped on generic gray ski boots. These better have auto pilot abilities, buddy. Onto the ski rentals. Nineteen year old boys with nametags and, therefore, expertise, asked if I had preferences. “I prefer skis that go slow. Really slow. And won't make me fail down.” He handed me a pair of skis that barely reached my waist. Perfect. “Come back if you're embarrassed that your skis are so short,” white boy joked as I hoisted them over my shoulder. Laugh all you want buddy, but me and my braided head would rather be laughed off the slope for short, slow skis than carried off the slope with life threatening injuries because she flung herself off a high hill with long, fast ones. Outfitted as true skiers, we hit the beginner slopes.

Now, credit where it is due, Kayla has some skiing experience under her belt. Greg lured her into it with the promise of cute ski clothes, hot chocolate, a pink helmet and goggles with bling. No seriously, they had serious rhinestones and could have blinded a passerby. Kayla can confidently ski down those beginner slopes and hold her own on intermediate ones. I, on the other hand, have negative ski experience. My one and only ski day prior to today was with my little sister, a 'first timer' lesson courtesy of the Big Sister Association of Greater Boston. Our instructor barked at us like a drill sergeant. “KEEP YOUR SKIS PARALLEL!” Buddy, if I knew how to make them parallel I wouldn't be here. Perhaps you could teach us how to get them parallel? Nope? Ok great. Thanks for the lesson.

Yet there we were, Ms. Pink Helmet and Rhinestone Goggles and Ms. Get Out of My Way Because I Can Go But I Can't Stop throwing ourselves down icy surfaces in below zero temperatures. Kayla laughing hysterically at my inability to properly board and exit a chair lift, and me wondering how anyone could possibly think that this is an enjoyable activity. Four and a half hours later the torture was over. The boys frozen, but beaming from the exhilarating experience. Kayla and I frozen, but beaming that the experience was done for the day.

There's a lot of stuff I do related to this search that, in my mind, is akin to electively choosing to strap sleds onto my feet and barrel down a freezing slope. Phone calls, blogs, interviews, follow ups that all go against my nature. Black people don't ski. Audra doesn't put herself out there. Like my day of skiing, when it's over I am usually beaming that I survived; I don't appreciate the experience but at the end of it I'm ok if I leads me to a given result. What was the result of skiing today? My amending the statement of 'black people don't ski' to 'mixed people don't ski without hoping that their white sides might momentarily become dominant and save them from a visit to the emergency room.' Moreover, the result was wracking up memories of Kayla and I doubling over as she attempted to haul me up a slope by her ski pole. What is the result of my uncomfortable Ashley activities to date? My amending the statement of 'finding her is going to be difficult' to 'finding her is going to be possible' since people keep looking on our behalf, helping us to narrow our efforts. Moreover, the result is me wracking up memories of the people I've met, corresponded with, talked to and walked with who attempt to keep me optimistic as they haul me up and along with their ideas and encouragement.

Ashley, I can't ski. I can't swim. But I can straighten unruly hair and dance. I don't expect that you can do any or all of the above, but I do expect that if we are reunited we can make lots of great memories. I hope to have that chance. I dream of having that opportunity.

We may not do it in 2009, but 2010 will bring the granting of this wish. I know it. You know it. Maybe, somewhere, Ash knows it too.

With love (and numb toes),
Audra 

To all A Wish for Ashley-ers and Ashley Helpers,

It doesn’t feel like Christmas Eve. Sure, it’s cold out.  The tree is bright (and as meticulous as ever).  The calendar states December 24th. But instead of being filled with anticipation, my mind, as expected, has filled me with memories.  Ashley memories.  Will memories. They defined my understanding of Santa, family, love and miracles.   They define what, to me, Christmas is all about. 



I’ve known that Will would not be here for Christmas.  I’ve known, but the realization doesn’t make the feelings of sadness go away.  My mom reprimanded me this afternoon- “Will would be angry if you were crying this holiday.  That’s not what he would have wanted.”  It’s true.  So, Will, I will try not to cry and instead think up all the wise-ass responses you would have to my family’s antics while opening presents tomorrow morning.  Your responses always made me laugh.  I will try to replace tears with smiles.

I’ve accepted that Ashley will not be here this Christmas.  I’ve accepted it, but the realization doesn’t stop me from hoping that maybe she will be next year.  I’ve never been one to like teams, but all of you reading this are the best team I could have ever assembled.  It’s true.  So, my friends, I will try not to be discouraged that we have not found her yet and instead think up every creative strategy we might be able to employ to make sure Ashley is found soon.  Your encouragement always makes me smile.  I will try to transform smiles into success. 

I hope all of you are surrounded by loved ones for the holiday.  People who make you laugh, dream, and appreciate all you have around you.  Individuals who make you believe that people can produce miracles- however you or your faith may define them.  

With love (and so much gratitude),

Audra 

Call me cold hearted, but I don’t like animals. Dogs, cats, gerbils, rabbits… they’re all well and good but I don’t want them anywhere near me or anywhere near my living space.  Especially dogs. I not only don’t like them, but I also fear them. Tell me all you want that Fido is ‘sweet’ and ‘would never hurt a fly’ but I know that the minute you turn your back, that slobbering creature will clamp right down on my leg. So you can imagine the surprise I am experiencing over the fact I have come to care about the welfare of an animal, and a dog at that.

But that’s the kind of effect my Uncle Will has had on me.  Will is the reason I walk past drug addicts on the street and wonder not about why a person is destroying him or herself like that, but what happened in their lives to press him to pursue such a chemical escape.  Will is the reason I try not to generalize about ‘criminals’ and either defray judgment or learn more about the individual’s story before considering any kind of conclusion.  Will is the reason that I have been called a liberal.  Haha. 

Will is the reason I care about a dog.  Zak was his only ‘child’ besides Ashley. A yellow lab he acquired when Zak was just a puppy; a dog he got right before he was diagnosed with cancer and began fighting for each day. I never liked Zak, even once he moved in.  And by in I mean into my mom’s basement- she’s not an animal lover either.  Zak was untrained.  Would bark at me.  Would scare the crap out of me.  However, I kept quiet, because Will loved Zak.  And I loved Will. 

Will made few requests at the end of his life. Picked his battles, I suppose you could say.  He asked me to take care of his fish.  I promised I would.  24 hours later the fish was floating.  Will, I’m sorry. But the fish wanted to go with you.  I couldn’t stop him!  He asked my mom and I to find Ashley.  We’re working on it.  And lastly, he asked my mom to keep Zak.  And now I know he’s laughing hysterically as he looks down from above.

Kevin, my “fake stepdad,” is Zak’s primary caregiver.  He loves Zak, takes him out, shows him the kind of love my fear and my mother’s love of cleanliness would never allow.  Yet lately Zak has become sad.  Depressed.  He cries. Loudly.  Nearly every night. Sometimes during the day.  The sound broke my heart.  It was like hearing Will cry.  My mother felt the same. She started going down in the basement with treats to keep him company, and my little brother- home on break- would try too.  However Zak kept crying.  He’s lonely.  He needs love.

When Will was struggling with drug addiction he was lonely and needed love.  We showed him he was not alone, and no action he might take would diminish the love we had for him.  So it is no surprise that when Zak began expressing his sadness, my mother, Miss-is-that-a-single-dog-hair?-GET-A-VACCUM!, agreed to let him come upstairs.  Out of the basement into her house.  In a crate. Obviously.  Because I’m still terrified Zak is going to eat me.  Last night was Zak’s inaugural evening up on the main living level.

And he was beaming.  Literally, I never thought dogs could beam.  They can show their fangs and maul you, but I didn’t believe they could legit smile.  He was calm.  We were 10 feet away in the family room, calling out to him, reassuring him, and he was visibly calmed.   He was Will.  An embodiment.  The crooked smirk.  The ease; so easily pleased.  He was family.

I’m still scared of Zak.  Don’t get me wrong.  He’s in the basement for today, but will be above ground- in the crate- again tonight.  However, I think I understand why Will made the final requests that he did.  He wanted me to take care of the fish.  Knowing the fish was on its last legs- gills?- and I would be absolved of responsibility.  He wanted my mom and I to find Ashley.  Knowing that when I get a goal in my head I won’t stop until I attain it, and that the qualities necessary for doing so that I lack- aggressiveness and assertiveness- my mother would contribute to drive the search forward.  He wanted my mom to keep the dog. Knowing that we would miss him.  Zak is a way to have Will around.  Because the house is still empty, and some days are still sad.  But with Zak around we remember not the chemo and the drugs and the hospice care… but the man who brought warmth, laughter, love and lessons into our household. 

Ashley, I’m missing your father a lot.  Last Christmas, when he was too sick to get out of bed, he told me I should get use to not having him around for the holiday.  I shook my head and refused to listen to him.  I still refuse to listen to him.  I’m having Will around for the holiday.  Bringing him into the house however I can. Because with him above me I won’t ever be lonely and I’ll always be loved.  Ash, I hope one day you’ll be found so that you can become aware of his love for you.  

With love (and a reminder: only five more shopping days ‘til Christmas),

Audra 

Holiday Tradition Two: Charity Gift Wrapping

Historical Background:  Growing up I always admired people that would volunteer at soup kitchens over the holidays or make meals for their neighbors who did not have the time or capacities to do so themselves.  However, I would never dare because to me cooking means putting a bag of popcorn in the microwave and hitting ‘express 2 minutes.’  When I’m feeling really fancy, I scrape a can of tuna into a bowl and eat it. Plain.  According to Boyfriend, this meal is the closest thing to dog food I could get before popping open a can of Alpo. So instead, four years ago I jumped at the chance to volunteer over the holidays doing something I actually have skillz in: gift wrapping.  I grew up under the Gift Wrapping Reign O’ Terror.  If your corners weren’t sharp or your wrappings didn’t match the color scheme of the tree, your gift didn’t make the cut.  It went in the closet and was not permitted under the tree.  Therefore my gift wrapping is perfection.  Ok not perfection, but it is pseudo professional. 

A Normal Tradition:  Taking shifts as a charity gift wrapper at the Cambridgeside Galleria Mall.  All proceeds benefit Rosie’s Place, an amazing women’s shelter and service provider in Boston.  Rosie’s Place is also where one of Will’s best friends works!

My Whacked Out Experience with This Tradition: My blogging has fallen off because man oh man I’ve been wrapping up a storm this week.  I was disappointed to see that the Rosie’s Place wrapping station was moved this year, to an obscure location on the third level of the mall.  I know from my four years of charity wrapping experience that being down on the first floor by the food court wracks up the big bucks.  Catch the weary male shoppers at a moment of weakness, when they’ve finished their shopping and are wandering aimlessly around the Food Court for sustenance.  In their low-blood sugared haze, a booth of women with the promise of holiday gifts wrapped, bowed and carded for $5.00 is like a mirage in the desert of Christmas Shopping Hell.  However, I surveyed the new location and thought ok fine. Not prime real estate, but I like a challenge.  Bring it on. I plastered on a smile and batted my eyelashes at the war torn shoppers.  And yeah, I told Boyfriend.  Flirting is allowed when you’re flirting for a good cause.

Our shift was off to a slow start, but two ‘what are you doings?’ and a ‘where’s the restroom?’ later,  we had a taker.  He pulled a small jewelry box out of his pocket and shoved it across the counter.  “Just wrap that. Quickly,” he commanded, his eyes darting around.  My years of experience told me one thing: guy buying present for his second girlfriend, and his first is somewhere in this mall.  “Would you like a gift tag?” I asked innocently, verifying my judgment.  “No, no tag!” He barked.  Bingo.  Sleazy Customer Number One slammed down his five dollar bill and walked away.

Then there was the young man who plunked down a large box onto the counter.  “It’s for my girlfriend,” he stated, before I could ask him to pick out his wrapping paper.  Hold your horses dude.  I just asked if you wanted me to take the price tag off.  I flipped the large box over and realized this man had bought his girlfriend a set of kitchen knives.  Audra, don’t judge. My customer selected his wrapping- tasteful red paper with gold leaves- and began pacing as I started to wrap.  “Do you think that’s romantic?” he blurted out, interrupting my wrapping groove.  “I’m sorry?” I responded, confused. “My girlfriend always tells me my gifts aren’t romantic enough.  But this is a romantic gift, right?” I eyed the set of kitchen knives.  And the Rosie’s Place donation box.  Hmmm… I don’t want to alienate a customer before we’ve received payment. “Is she a chef?” I asked cheerfully, keeping my eyes on the scissors and tape.  “No.”  “Did she ask for kitchen knives?” I asked, in an equally airy manner.  “No,”  he responded.  I finished off the package with a matching bow and gift tag and put my hand out for our donation.  With the money safely in my hand I heard the words come out of mouth before I could stop them. “Well kitchen knives don’t exactly scream romance to me, but maybe your girlfriend will think differently.  Good luck!” 

Invitation: Ashley, I don’t know if you have any holiday traditions, but I’d love to learn about yours and I’ve love to involve you in mine.  You don’t even need to know how to wrap- seriously, these guys are so clueless, you could roll up the gift in paper, place duct tape all around it and they’d be i”  I was thinking about you when I was wrapping, wondering what you might receive this year.  Wishing there was something I could give you. I don’t know yet what that would be… but I can promise I’ll leave the kitchen knives on the shelf in the store. 

With love (and a few paper cuts),

Audra

When I was a kid, I envied my friends for their families’ Full House-esque holiday traditions.  I found their cookie parties, visits to grandparents’ houses, personalized stockings and mini-tree lighting ceremonies fascinating, quaint and freakishly wholesome.  Our family has never been one for formal tradition.  Why have a sit down meal when you can arrange the food in a disorganized buffet, resulting in a beautifully chaotic do-si-do as you help yourself to ham, potatoes and a roll only to have to circle back to the start of the display in order to obtain butter and gravy?  However for our lack of grace and social decorum, we make up for it in laughs and foolish innovation.  Our holiday traditions may never be featured in a wholesome Hallmark movie, but they do prompt me to celebrate my family members in a most genuine way.

Holiday Tradition One: The Nutcracker

Historical Background: Growing up, Kayla and I danced in the Nutcracker every year.  Mice, soldiers, party children, snowflakes, flowers, Chinese, Russian, Spanish, Flowers, candy canes… you name it, we danced it.  Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas without those familiar bars of music, costumes and dancers pirouetting across the stage. 

A Normal Family Tradition:  Attending a professional performance of the Nutcracker each holiday season.

Our Whacked Out Version of the Tradition:  Attending a professional performance of the Nutcracker…but before doing so, going out to dinner.  We get dolled up in dresses and impossibly high heels, eat at a nice place… and then proceed to walk over ice and snow for 25 minutes+ to the theater.  Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without feeling our toes go numb, nearly wiping out multiple times and laughing at each other’s unfeminine scurries and shuffles as we attempt to move quickly and stay upright. 

Enacting the Tradition in 2009: Last night, Kayla and I relocated to New York City (from Boston) for our annual Nutcracker outing.  Different ballet company, same ridiculousness. I don’t recommend running/shuffling/inappropriately stumbling 10 blocks in a tight satin pencil dress that doesn’t allow for more than a 7 inch stride. 

Invitation: Ashley, if you ever join us for our Nutcracker evening, I’ll give you my arm.  I can’t guarantee you won’t bite it, but I can guarantee that if you do, I’ll go down with you.

With love (from Kayla’s couch in New York),

Audra 

Growing up, I hated being tall.  As a ballerina, being tall meant I got placed in the back for every dance performance.  Being tall meant having to play a boy in every production that our dance school put on.  Being tall meant having to dance by myself for Royal Academy of Dancing examinations, because we only had three in my exam group instead of four, and the other two girls were of non-mutant height.  I may be 12 years old and 5 foot 7 but I can dance, damnit! I was bitter.

That was until September of 1997.  The start of Nutcracker season at Londonderry Dance Academy. I lived for Nutcracker season. The long rehearsals.  The costumes.  The missing 8 days of school to tour New Hampshire elementary schools and perform.  The lunches on tour days- at Burger King!  Oh, I lived and breathed it.  I was thrilled to learn that my class would be Snowflakes that year and we would dance snow in both casts.  No boy and girl roles.  A lot of circular choreography.  Despite my height, I could be assured that I would not need to tuck my hair under a pageboy cap and I would not be stuck in the back of the dance for the whole performance.  Lots of stage time.  This was going to be the Best. Nutcracker. Season. Ever.  We were two weeks into rehearsals when my dance teacher, Mrs. Mullen, asked me to stay after class.  I was worried.  Did I do something wrong?  Was she going to bump me from Snow and make me pull on some knickers after all?  My stomach knotted up.   And then it happened.  “Audra,” Mrs. Mullen said in her lilting British accent, “would you be able to come to rehearsals with Kayla’s class?  We’re short one Flower and you’re tall.  You would be great.”  WHAT?!  My sixth grade self felt like she grew a foot taller right there. I was invited to dance with a class two years older than mine? I was going to be in the same dance as my older sister? I would get to play Snow and dance in Waltz of the Flowers in the same show?!  I was beaming.  And I stood up straighter.  I’m tall and I’m a Flower.  Check it. 

Kayla’s class welcomed me to their rehearsals like I was some kind of pet.  I relished it.  I was placed in the front.  Opposite Kayla, in fact, dancing a Flower in Cast A.  I was outfitted not in a vest but in a beautiful new tutu dress.  I studied the more advanced steps with great intensity.  I made Kayla practice with me for hours on end at home. When full run throughs started, I was dead set on being a great flower, knowing my class of snowflakes would be watching me. Wondering.  How did the tall girl get to dance with the older kids?  Run throughs went great.  Mrs. Mullen nodded her approval.  Kayla told me I did well.  My fellow snowflakes who so often were placed in front of me were jealous to see me in the front of Waltz of the Flowers. Call it the Tall Girl’s Revenge. 

Our first week of touring started and it was magical.  On days that Cast A was touring, I loved dancing in Snow and then running back to the bathroom, changing into my flower tutu and returning to dance for a second time.  On days that Cast B was touring, I performed as snow and then snuck backstage to see the second cast of girls dance Waltz of the Flowers, taking mental notes as to how I could improve my performance.  We were halfway through the second week of three-a-day school performances when- on a Cast B day- Mrs. Mullen came running into the dressing room.  “Audra!”  I turned. “Danielle’s sick.  I need you to be a Flower for today.”  I nodded- Mrs. Mullen was not someone you would ever dare question- and went to retrieve a flower costume.  I was pinning the pink flower crown onto my head when I pulled a Cast B flower to find out where on the stage Danielle usually danced.  “Oh, she dances where you do on stage left Cast A, but on stage right. She’s your mirror image.”  I froze.  My mirror image?  Meaning every step I knew… I would need to reverse?!  “Um, where are we in the show?” I asked in a whisper.  The girl stuck her head out in the hallway to try and catch the oh-so-familiar music.  “Russian,” she pronounced, before walking away.  I couldn’t breathe.  Flowers was two dances away.  I had 6 minutes to figure out how to do every intricate step I had painstakingly studied for three months on the other foot.  6 minutes few by.  It was a blur when a girl in a matching tutu grabbed my arm, said “we’re on!” and hurried me to the stage. 

Waltz of the Flowers is the longest dance in the Nutcracker.  The piece is six and a half minutes long.  I made it through 3.5 of them without incident, forcing my brain to instinctively step on the left foot when it wanted to step on the right.  To turn to the right diagonal instead of the left.  I began to calm down a little bit as I got to the point in the dance where all the flowers kneel and the Dew Drop fairy performs her solo.  On the next count of eight I need to stand up, turn right no wait, make that left.  Yes I need to turn left and then we do the criss cross.  I went left, circled around and waited for the familiar count that signaled I needed to meet my mirror image partner in the middle of the stage and cross in front of her. Pique, pique, chasse, pa ba bourrie, BAM!   I slammed into my mirror image flower and we hit the floor.  The auditorium of elementary schoolers made an audible gasp. 

I’m told I got off the floor and kept dancing.  I don’t remember anything after hitting the floor.  You see, in dance, you’re trained from the moment you learn stage directions to know that in a criss-cross situation, the girl coming from stage right always crosses in front.  It’s like Newton’s First Law of Motion for dancers.  I knew this law, but I defied it when I failed to register that on that day I was coming from Stage Left.   I knew the reason they had this law in place- to prevent mid-stage collisions like the one I had just caused- I knew it.  And when it was important, I forgot it. I might have been the tallest Snowflake, but I wanted to shrink to the size of one of our first grade mice for the rest of that afternoon.

It is only appropriate that last night I took my Little Sister to see the Boston Ballet's performance of the Nutcracker.  I had been so down all day yesterday- not just about the Ashley false alarm, but because of the fact that, when it mattered, I forgot the Law Of A Wish for Ashley I set for myself at the beginning of this project: don’t get your hopes up until she’s actually in front of you. I defied the Law I knew I needed to live by to avoid the kinds of disappointments that would make me liable to give up. Yesterday afternoon I wanted to give up.  But when I picked up my Little Sister (a girl I mentor who is celebrating her 11th birthday today- Happy Birthday, Adonia!!!!) and walked her into the theater and watched her eyes grow huge as she took in the costumes, the music and the dramatics of the Nutcracker for the very first time… I remembered the magic.  The feeling of putting on a costume and a crown and feeling so confident and graceful.  The feeling of Mrs. Mullen pulling me after class, and making me feel proud that I was tall.  The feeling of keeping up with the older kids and feeling like I could do anything.  The Nutcracker isn’t about Laws.  A Wish for Ashley can’t be about Laws.  As a great person in my life just emailed and reminded me, it’s about the journey.  Costumes, days off, fast food lunches, collisions and all… if that’s where Will is guiding me and Ashley is taking me, I need to be there.  And stand tall.  Because I am. 
 
With love (and visions of sugar plums dancing in my head),
Audra

 

 

Found the girl’s Myspace page.  Based on the pictures found there… it looks like we need to file this under Major Coincidences and Disappointments.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t upset.  I need to call it a night.

With love (and a feeling of defeat),

Audra 

Last night an A Wish for Ashley-er sent us a lead.  A name. Address. Phone number. Picture.  It looks just like her. She looks just like my Uncle Will.  The birthdays match.  This girl is in Connecticut.  

My mom is convinced we’ve found Ash.  Kayla compared the picture to our Ashley at age 7 pictures and my Uncle Will’s picture and said she ‘has a feeling’ its her.  Tara brought reason into the conversation, cautioning us to bank on this girl being our cousin.  I’m all over the board.  

Last night I went to bed 150% sure it is her.  This morning I woke up with a pit in my stomach, feeling like maybe this is just one of those huge coincidences.  An unrelated girl in Connecticut who shares my cousin’s birthday and just happens to look just like my family.  I’m terrified that this will be a false alarm. I’m scared to believe that hours after asking for it, my miracle has been delivered.  Will, please give me a sign that she’s the one.  Please.   Have you brought our search to an end?

With love (and a head full of ‘what ifs’),
Audra