1. asked me to stay with A. while she did a small chore in the kitchen, and I settled in a side chair for whatever might present itself. The I.V. pole in the corner of the room caught my attention and A. offered the name of the drug and its purpose. I honestly did not know that particular drug, and had nothing to offer, so I just nodded my head. A. looked at me, cleared his throat, and proceeded to tell me about a problem he is encountering. I interrupted him and told him that I know nothing about him other than his name and he is J's son, and that J. has not shared anything about him privately with me. He smiled, and then with his head bowed and eyes peering at me, told me that he has AIDS, worries about the stigma, and dreads the stance most health professionals assume when he encounters them as they interpret the name of his disease process. I sat very still and nodded my head. I wanted to acknowledge his pain and show acceptance of him and what appeared to be his need to connect with me. Together we reflected on the wonderfulness of the human spirit, the concept of personhood, and holistic beings with thoughts, feelings, wants, and needs. When A. was ready we ventured down the stairs and found J. sitting quietly in a rocking chair. It seemed she had finished her "task," and I wondered how long she had been sitting alone. I sensed that she had invited me into her private pain, and courageously shared another part of her life with me. I also knew intuitively that she did not want to talk about it. J. had prepared the piano, and all of them asked me to play for them and expressed disappointment that I did not play the piano during my visit last week. So I played gentle, reflective songs interspersed with light melodic phrases. Requests were offered by each member of the family, and within minutes J. was sitting next to me on the piano bench, singing loudly and punctuating words with feelings and strength and lending incredible meaning to lyrics. "Old Man River," deep, low, rumbling of the piano and purposefully driving tempo was responded to in kind with J. stamping her food with each beat and pounding her knee with each word as she emphatically sang "He just keeps rolling along, he keeps on rolling along." It seemed to be cathartic for her as expressions seemed to come from the center of her being. We applauded ourselves when we finished and J. let me hug her. A. caught my eye and mouthed "thank you for helping my mother to smile." J. was quiet then, and I felt her exhaustion. We agreed that it was time to close the piano for another week, and I left. J. followed me to my car, and left me with "God bless you."