It’s not like any instrument I’ve ever seen. Or rather, it is, but it’s as if I’m looking at its reflection in a warped mirror.

“I can’t play that,” I tell our Host.

His gaze feels like how I imagine it must be like when an anvil is dropped on your head. “Are you not a Cellist?”

“I am,” I say. “But that instrument looks more like a bass.” And not a double bass, either, I think. More like a quadrupal  – no – octupal – bass.

“And do you know how to play a bass?”

“In theory. A normal one anyway. I mean the strings are different, tuned in fourths instead of fifths, and G is the high string, but… the physics are the same. But this one… In order to play it, I’d need at least two more hands. Maybe three.”

“That can be arranged,” the Host replies, as blandly as if I’d asked for a glass of water.

A shiver goes through me. When I agreed to sub for my friend Karl on this gig, I had no idea what I was getting into. All I’d been told was to show up at the mansion on Aerie Drive just after dusk, and to wear black.

“It can?” I ask, inwardly pleased that my voice remains steady. (I’d been certain I would squeak.)

“Easily.”

The word lasts three times as long as it should, and then I feel it… my body is changing. My shoulders and rib cage are expanding and suddenly instead of the two arms I was born with, I have six, and when I move them, it’s as if I’ve always had six.

“I don’t know what to say,” I tell the Host.

“Say nothing, Cellist. Just play.”

And suddenly the instrument makes sense, with its eighteen pegs and eighteen strings. I’m playing chords I never knew existed, and my body just knows what to do, where to put my fingers. The music and I are one being, and I feel like I’m flying, like I’m connected to the universe and it’s energizing me with every stroke of the bow, every press of my fingers against the wire and the wood.

When I finish my impromptu audition, my heart is racing and I’m breathing hard, and I can feel sweat on my brow and under all of my arms, but I don’t ask for feedback.

I don’t have to.

I know.

The Host remains silent for a long moment. When I think a moment can’t possibly be stretched any thinner he speaks the word “Brilliant.” The final ‘t’ is almost its own syllable. “Follow me to your room. You’ll do well here.”

I don’t mention that I thought this was a one-night gig, or that I have an apartment waiting for me. Somehow, I know I’ll never be going back to it. I belong here, now.

Here where the music will never stop, and there’s an instrument only I can play.

I’ve always loved playing in the kitchen.

I remember all the times I watched as my grandmother and my mother and all the aunties would bustle around, measuring out ingredients and filling kettles, stoking the fire of the big old coal-burning oven and testing things for doneness.

Sometimes they’d give me some dough to shape. I never twisted it into the classic pretzel-shape everyone expected, though. Instead, I’d outline continents or trace the lines of constellations, then dab on the egg-yolk and sprinkle a bit of cinnamon sugar or salt, as my mood dictated.

I always suspected that they gave me the dough to keep me from seeing what they were really cooking.

But I knew.

Too many things that weren’t food came out of our kitchen.

Aunt Helen, for example, always baked the loveliest quilts, patchworks of strawberry, blueberry, and raspberry with squirts of lemon juice for a punch of color.

Aunt Delia poured galloping horses out of her kettle, and Aunt Patricia blended the most amazing stories – you could taste the voices.

Mom… Mom dabbled in a little of everything, but when she was at her best she’d toss a few ingredients into a hot saute pan, and out would come a complete outfit, inspired by the latest cover of Vogue or Elle or (when she was making something for me) Seventeen.

My grandmother, on the other hand – she had the real talent in the family. She’d layer things into one of the big lasagna pans, singing while she worked, and an hour or so later, she’d pull pots of African violets out of the oven.

She sang to them, too, of course.

But that’s a different kind of magic.

It took me a while to figure out my specialty. At first, I wanted to blend stories like my aunt, but we have different voices and different experiences in the world, so my stories are different than hers.

She blends things from root vegetables and sharp cheeses, red wine, fresh bread, and long walks in misty woods.

My stories… they’re made of other ingredients. Dark chocolate, spicy chili, sometimes a little wasabi, other times a whole, creamy avocado. And I don’t blend. Sometimes I saute, like Mom, and sometimes, I bake, like my grandmother, and often I use the crockpot, because some stories need to be stewed slowly… And I do sing while I’m working, sometimes.

Now, each of us has one, special, secret ingredient that we use when we’re in the kitchen. As with magicians, we don’t reveal what those ingredients are. Or at least, we would never share what others might be using.

But I don’t mind telling you what mine is.

It’s very simple, and incredibly hard to find, both at the same time.

It’s a pinch of stardust.

He would bring them home in buckets. Roses, sunflowers, peonies, mums – whatever flowers were pretty and seasonable.

They were metal buckets. Garden pails, really. He would drop them near the door and call out that he was home, and I’d follow the sound to the foyer, running to his solid embrace.

I didn’t mind the roses, and I liked the tulips and irises and sunflowers.

But it was the gladiolas that I loved.

The first time he gave me glads, it was the night before his first deployment, and they were yellow.

“No ribbons, babe,” he insisted. “You’re allowed to be reasonably worried. But no ribbons. No signs. If you must keep a vigil, do it quietly.”

Well, I really wasn’t the ribbon type.

But before he left, I buried myself in his arms and breathed in his scent – fresh flowers, speed stick deodorant, Old Spice aftershave. I memorized that smell.

The next bunch of gladiolas were pink, brought to the hospital the day our daughter was born.

I asked if he would have preferred a son. “Nawp. Girl or boy, it’s much the same. We’ll raise her and love her, and she’ll know about writing and cooking and embroidery from you, and tools and gardening from me, and none of those pink screwdrivers, either. This baby will grow up knowing the difference between Philips and flathead.”

I laughed at that. “Don’t forget Allen wrenches,” I said. “She has to be the queen of flat-pack furniture by the time she heads to college.”

“And so, she will.”

And so, she was.

And the gladiolas kept coming, their tall green stalks and delicate pastel flowers witnessing every holiday and birthday and sometimes just because it was a day that ended in ‘y.’

And then they stopped.

He stopped.

At his funeral, I tore away the lilies and roses, and laid the gladiolas on his coffin. They looked me, our family, our friends, like I was crazy, but I did it anyway. And our daughter understood. She wrapped her arm around me and said, “Yes, Mom. That’s what he would have wanted.”

I couldn’t be around glads for a long after that.

When I turned fifty, a well-meaning friend sent a bouquet that had gladiolas in it. I gave her my brittle smile and thanked her politely. I also stuffed the whole god-damned bunch of flowers into the trash can outside the restaurant as soon as her leased BMW had pulled away from the curb.

A few days later, the bucket appeared near the front door. Metal. Galvanized. Full of yellow glads. I stared at them, convinced they were a mirage, but when they remained after several hours, I brought them all the way inside.

I caught a whiff of speed stick as I moved them through the house.

Being in a relationship with a ghost is a tricky thing. Sometimes, he can be corporeal enough to engage in sexual intimacy, but other times even a simply hug requires more substance than he can offer.

I can hear him speak, but no one else can, though our dog always follows the direction of his out-of-tune singing.

I don’t ask him Why or How or How Long.

He doesn’t push me to remarry.

Our daughter never questions my out-of-the-blue happiness, either. She never suggests I seek therapy, or find a new lover – one who has both presence and a pulse.

She sees the buckets of gladiolas in every possible color.

And she knows.

“The Tree is the heart of the Forest,” they told me. All of them, the old Mothers, the old Wives, spun me their tales of loyalty and devotion, betrayal and desolation, love and loss, and time.

“The Tree is the heart of the Forest and the Mother is the heart of the Family,” they elaborated as the years went by and my marriage remained a barren one.

Despite my long years of adulthood, they spoke to me as though I were a child. They never say it outright, but their tones all imply the same thing. I, who have never carried a growing fetus within my womb, who have never pushed a mewling infant into this cold world, am somehow less.

Less of an adult. Less of a wife. Less of a person.

At home, sitting in front of the fire, I rail and rant and cry, and my husband wraps his solid arms around me, and assures me I am not less, but that I am actually enough.

He kisses away my tears and fury and we make love by firelight, our bodies coming together with no less of a thrill despite the familiarity of decades.

When he brings me to completion, I let my exultation resound, willing the Others, the Old Ones, the Grandmothers and Great-Grandmothers with their brooding eyes and clucking teeth, to hear it.

“Listen,” I think. “Hear this. I am full of Warmth and Joy and Love.

“The Tree is the Heart of the Forest, and the Mother is the heart of the Family.” I hear them chanting it in my head, and I banish their wavering voices and frowning mouths. I cast away their sorrowful faces etched with ancient worry lines.

They’re right, though.

The Tree is the heart of the Forest.

But its roots and branches dwell within me.

I will never be the Mother.

I am the Tree.