through my music in an almost uncanny way. She had often said "There's something lonely and pathetic in your tunes, I wish you'd write happier melodies."

I improvised for almost fifteen minutes on a familier nursery tune. I employed all the excess that Mom loved; arpeggios, cascading double octaves, grandiose chords in the Rachmaninoff style. When I had finished, Mom was sitting attentively, apparently affected by the music.

"That was beautiful," she said, "but there's something in your music tonight. You aren't upset about something are you?"

My heart jumped again. Here was another perfect opening. I struggled to bring it out of me-to say it. I searched for words and my mind was again confused and blank, my feelings chaos. I could only say "No."

I wanted Mom to pursue her question, to make me tell what I had to say in spite of myself; but, as she had always done before, she left me to my own

resources.

"I wish you would try to do something with your music," she continued. "Your are so talented and you're letting it all go to waste." I never told her that the intense interest I had in music had served its purpose; that I didn't require it any more. She always had dreams of my becoming a celebrated composer; and I never had the heart to disillusion her. My ability was far below that. "You should give up the job at the office and work on your music. I'll help you out with money, if that's what's worrying you."

"Its not the money!" I always resented this suggestion of hers, "I want to be self-supporting. I don't want to be supported by my mother at the age of 34! No, I must earn my own living."

"You see!" she jumped, "afraid to be different. What do you care what other people think?" She was adamant. "Don't be afraid to be-

"Mom," I interrupted, "you were telling me about the man next door." Something inside of me had abruptly found the courage and the words that I had spoken surprised me.

"Oh, yes, him. He has his men friends in-usually on weekends. He seems like such a nice person though, you would never suspect-I mean he isn't effeminate or anything like that. But then I guess a lot of 'em aren't. But I was a little surprised, you know?"

"I-um--I have something to tell you," I felt caught up in a drama and foolish for dramatizing myself. My words were inarticulate, dull. "I came here tonight to tell you." I stammered, I almost could not hear myself, my head pounded so. "I've wanted to tell you for a long time. Please don't be hurt. Please try to understand." I wanted to forget the whole thing, to go out into the cool night air and breath! "I-I am ho-," the word got caught in my throat and I had to swallow hard. "I'm homosexual. John and I-we-I love him dearly. John loves me. We -well-we're" the word suddenly sounded a little silly when I said it out loud for the first time in six years-"we're sort of 'married' in a way. I love him. I love 'im." I was figthing back tears that came from great tension and great effort. Mom sat quietly. She didn't say anything for a long moment. Then that certain light came to her eyes, the twinkle she got when she did something she thought was amusing or naughty, and she laughed a soft, wise laugh.

"I've known that since you were eighteen!" she said. "I don't understand it, I just don't understand it. It seems so strange to me. But I always hoped you would tell me. I'm so glad you could finally trust me." She came over to me and hugged me softly. "You're such a fine boy," she said.

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