During my formative years in Seville, I had an Andalusian Gypsy nanny by the name of Ahalita. Unable to bear children of her own, Ahalita poured all of her maternal affection upon me.  She was a flamenco dancer and no sooner was my mother gone for her day’s outing, than Ahalita would place a flamenco record upon the turn table. I remember waking up from my afternoon naps to see Ahalita hovering over my crib, holding my chubby little wrist and twisting my hand around and around, training me towards the flamenco. To this day, I still twirl my wrists upon awakening. From her own coin, Ahalita fitted me out in flamenco dresses and extravagant bracelets. On our morning walks through the park, she presented me to all as though I was her own.  My mother felt her intense feelings for me bordered upon obsession, and as Ahalita's connection with me deepened, so too did my mother's sense of unease. The time had come to let her go.

Ahalita did not take kindly to being fired, but that is a story for another time. I feel the residue of Ahalita’s spirit is somehow linked with my own.

I may not have Gypsy blood flowing through my veins, but I have something of Ahalita, that is a certainty. There is an old Spanish saying: More grows in the garden than the planter has sown!