"Whoooo Are You . . .Who? Who?"

Apologies to The Who and CSI (the original), but this is the question I've been asking myself everyday as I look at the wrinkling countenance in my bathroom mirror.

As I walk out my front door every morning, I can see the poster for The Beatles at Shea Stadium hanging in the entrance to my apartment. The poster is a reproduction given to me on Mother's Day by my daughter - my 34 year old daughter. I was at Shea that August evening in '65 - just a few days before I was to enter nursing school - a few days before the life I wanted changed into the life I would have.

What happened to that girl, the one who rode the bus to New York to see The Fab Four? The girl who would sit in the basement and pound out stories on the old Royal portable - a Christmas gift from a father who wanted to inspire his daughter - not to be a writer, but to be a secretary. Where is the girl who fantasized about running away to England, to live in the Cotswalds, to travel the British rails? Where is she?

Is she still around somewhere, buried deep within an aging, overweight body? She still pounds out her stories - now on a computer. She still listens to J, P, G, and R - on her CDs. She's been to England four times and is planning her fifth trip across the pond.

She's still around - she didn't know who she was in '65 and forty years hasn't changed that.