My mother just chanted herself to sleep. Five hours after wishing desperately to fall asleep.

Such a long day for her, ordering new sitters to get out of her house. And NEVER EVER come back. Fighting a sponge bath. Ordering us to get her grits. An egg. More juice NOW please. Just one egg. Jello. Jello please. Jello. Jello please. Jello. Can I have my hamburger now? Hamburger, PLEASE. My bed is wet. Why are you hurting me? You're hurting my BACK. Stop. STOP. Just one egg. Where's my egg? Egg now PLEASE.

And still she could not rest.

My high school French teacher was at an alumnae event tonight. She reminisced about touring France and Italy on a motorcycle—must have been around 1960. She told me and another alum about a brother-in-law here who took up painting at 45. Who spent nine months farming, three traveling each year. She then told me he’d formerly been a photographer during World War II, has all of these beautiful black and white photos he took in Japan covering the walls of his house.

So I told her about Shintaido. Martial arts for peace. She asked me if I’d visited the Peace Museum in Caen, then told me there is a similar Peace Museum in New Orleans. Plan on several hours to go through just one section. Her eyes teared up and she said visiting the museum is emotionally heavy. All of these people recounting their experiences from the war. She recommended I drive to New Orleans to see it one day if I can take a break.

Sitting next to me was the young woman, another alumna, whom I’d just met. She’s thinking of trying Shintaido. She'd be my student.

Sometimes things just fall together.

I’ve never heard of a peace museum before.

The young sitter with me and my mom, her mother died at 64. Diabetes. Both legs amputated not long before she died.

The sitter's son wanted candy apple at the Rice Festival today.

My mother is asleep.