I bought a new piece of furniture for the living room: A buffet that's really for a dining room that fits perfectly in the small space I have for a TV in the living room. It's java brown and has two sliding doors that I can store my TV equipment and DVD's in and I think it's just adorable. I picked it up at The Door Store, a neat little place in Manhasset. And that brings me to this tale. While I was organizing I came upon a VHS tape my mother gave me a few years ago. She had taken what was left of the 8mm movies she and my father had made over the years and had them transferred to VHS format. I had never watched it because I didn't want to see things that would upset me, make me mad, or make me sad. Yesterday I decided to look at it. Maybe, but just maybe, I might not dive down into that spot of burning rage I carry in fifty compartments in my heart, primary among them how my mother turned from being a "mommy" into being "mommy dearest" after daddy died when I was ten years old, in 1966. Just seeing the BDD (before Dad died) mom could possibly set me off on the usual tirade I go into when I think about all we (my siblings, Carmen, Michael and Bobby) lost and how my mother turned into a partying, absent, mean and abusive bitch. So I went into this with a little trepidation. The guy who did the conversion used some tender, longing-type music as the score so I was ready to hit rage mode quickly. As I watched I felt a great sense of longing for those lost, happy, simple times. There were little snippets of us dressed up for Easter, my sixth birthday party, us kids playing on the beach, Carmen as a happy-go-lucky child smiling and acting silly, Michael under the Christmas tree playing with the PanAm plane he got from Santa, my father filming my mother right after she brought Bobby home from the hospital, Bobby's first steps, Dad kissing Bobby, my mother holding the baby so tenderly. And something happened that I don't understand. Some of the rage melted away. I realized what we all lost, including my mom. She didn't want him to die and she didn't want to be left with four kids under the age of ten, with no marketable skills to speak of and not a penny in the bank at age twenty-nine, not having worked for ten years. So I now understand emotionally, not just intellectually what his death, at the age of thirty-seven may have done to her, and it's a little bit easier to be nicer to my seventy-year old Mom.