Family, digital painting by KJ Hannah Greenberg

At the bottom of the last dune lies an artificial lake. Families guide paddle boats in its waters. The adjacent playground is full of children running, screaming, climbing, sliding, and swinging.

I skirt the lake and playground. At last, I walk on asphalt. I count trees. Olive. Oak. Pine. Tamarisk.

Three olives and two tamarisks later, I find the building. A lycium has been planted since my last visit. It nearly threw off my count.

Exhaling in a manner that I hope is inaudible, I walk into the lobby and eye the stairs. The door I seek is on the third floor of this building, a building without elevators. I sigh, again.

Tread over riser, tread over riser, I climb one floor. On that landing, I open my canteen, make a blessing, and sip. My feet throb. My knees hurt. My lower back is spasming. My physical limitations are among the reasons I haven’t sought this address in a very long time.

I cap my flask, say another blessing, make another sigh, and proceed toward the second flight. It has as many steps as did the first.

One by one, I climb them. Despite the heat and glare, my trek across the sand seemed easier.

The apartment’s residents rarely call. They visit me even less frequently. Most of our connections are made at my behest.

I shake my head. I am tired.

Feet can be soaked in Epsom salts. Knees can be soothed with arnica creams. Backs can be adjusted by chiropractors. Heartache, though, cannot be fixed by cardiologists. What’s more, no therapist of integrity can authentically promise to be able to reassemble my broken bits.

I ought not to have had to climb these stairs. They ought to have called. They ought to have visited. 

I sit on the bottommost tread of the second flight. They have no knowledge of my trek. They know only snippets about my health. My appearance at their door will be a surprise.

I pull a rag out of a pocket and dab at my eyes. At least some sand gets cleared from them.

Other than an increase in pain, my journey up the second flight of stairs is uneventful. I do not drink more water as I have to save some for my return.

Perhaps I linger on that landing for ten minutes. Perhaps I linger for an hour. There are no windows in the stairwell, so I have no external referent by which to mark my pace.

Dear Phebe: The Dickinson Sisters Go West

by Judy Wells

Dear Phebe is an out-of-the ordinary autobiography, an encounter with the myth (and truth) of Judy Wells’ own origins and destiny. Sorting through family letters, the Berkeley poet hears voices from her ancestors—three Dickinson sisters who went out west in the 1860s to seek their fortunes as pioneer schoolteachers. I loved every twist and turn of this mind-tripping story and laughed with glee when the author finds herself in the after-life with the Dickinson sisters, and then ends up returning her great-grandmother Phebe's 100-year-overdue book to the San Francisco Public Library. — Bridget Connelly, Forgetting Ireland With Dear Phebe, poet Judy Wells has produced a cutting-edge work of art that combines family ancestry research with poetic interrogations. Each Dickinson sister she profiles has a unique trajectory to California; all are waylaid by what Jane Austen called “the marriage plot.” Wells sings to them, dances with them (and away from them), challenges them, excavates them from a box of letters into the light of the 2lst-century and a world they could not have imagined. This book is a wholly new form, fusing history and poetry, inspiring both disciplines. — Lauren Coodley, author of California: A Multicultural Documentary History and The Same River Twice “Go West, young man,” is the famous command, but young women also heeded this advice. Among them were Judy Wells’ great-grandmother Phebe Marsh Dickinson and her two sisters, Delia and Abbie, distant cousins of Emily Dickinson, who came to California from Massachusetts in the late 19th century. In Dear Phebe, Wells chronicles their stories in poetry and prose in narratives that are so compelling I didn’t want the book to end. — Lucille Lang Day, Married at Fourteen: A True Story and Becoming an Ancestor For more about Dear Phebe and the author, go to her website: http://www.judywellspoet.com Dear Phebe can be ordered directly from the author for $27.95 (22.95 + 5.00 s/h). To pay by check, make the check out to Judy Wells and contact her at jwellspoet@att.net for her address. To pay by PayPal/credit card, send $27.95 to jwalfredsen@yahoo.com. In "What's this for?" include Dear Phebe, your name and address.

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Only a single flight of stairs separates me from the floor of the apartment. I can still return with no one discovering that I have tried to visit. I sit on the floor and reconsider.

I wonder if they’ll bother to attend my funeral. Likely, they’ll be happy with the monies I am bequeathing to them. Likely, they’ll mourn me, on holidays, and on the anniversary of my death, but only in a perfunctory way.

My homecooked meals have been replaced by social media-posted sups. My careful budgeting of hand-me-downs and discount purchases went the way of Sumatran rhinos when designer togs became within their reach. My decades of emphasizing Hillel’s prime dictate, “what is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow,” was tossed aside as soon as outside influences paid for their apartment, their car, and trips to foreign “destinations.”

I was invited to life events only where photographers would create a record, but not to births. I was welcomed to goings-on when they deemed it convenient but was never asked to fully participate. I was reduced to a mark on their ancestral tree instead of being welcomed as a living legacy or even as an occasional font of life wisdom.

And yet, he is my son. They are my daughter-in-law and grandchildren. I have no other family. They should hear the news.

I climb that last flight of stairs. My sciatic nerve sends pain all the way to my toes. I am breathless upon reaching the third landing.

When I knock, a small human, who looks a lot like my son, answers. In disappointment, he announces, “Oh, it’s Grandma.”

My son comes to the door. He calls forward no other grandchild. My daughter-in-law continues her phone call. I can hear her laughter, but not her words, in the background.

I tell my son the doctor’s prognosis.

He mumbles a few words, offers no hug, kiss, chair to rest on, or refreshment, and then shuts the door.

I sit in front of his apartment for a while, willing myself to take the first steps back to where I dwell. Eventually, I stand up and begin to descend the many stairs. I am returning home.