The first time I now remember hearing Keely Smith sing “Mr. Wonderful” was the first time of many I heard my mother truly weep. I was four-years-old and I knew that song had once been a happy song but that now it was sad, sadder than anything I had yet encountered. Sadder than the day my dog, Ginger, died. It played over and over on the big maple stereo in the living room, and it became scratched and skipped in places, while Mom sat motionless in a chair looking out the window, or while she paced around the kitchen, coffee cup in hand, or while she lay on the floor and I held a warm wet washcloth to her forehead just the way Aunt Mary had carefuly taught me. And it played while I tried not to look at her eyes, which were vacant and blue and dripping tears in a constant stream that mixed with the warm water from the cloth that my hands were too small to squeeze. The music played. A lovely song. And my mother was ruined forever and life would never be good again. I may have been four-years-old, but I knew it.