To the woods and waters wild. W. B. Yeats, “The Stolen Child” Changelings “Mother, when were you the happiest?” “When you girls were babies.” “Why was that?” “Because you were all mine.” “And what was I like as a baby?” “You were very, very good.” “How was I good?” “You never cried once.” There’s a room inside my palace you need to break a spell to enter. In the middle of the room is a small wooden table. Perched on the table is a white dove; beside it is the head of a porcelain doll. The doll’s head is a prop from a short film I made years ago. In it, a madwoman believes her infant has been stolen and a changling has been left in its place. It is 1980, and after two years of college in Michigan, I am living in Chicago, going to art school. My mother lives with my grandparents in the old house on 148th Street; my sister is out of school and working in Seattle. I live in a huge loft with my roommate Amy and six pet doves in an old converted warehouse called the Paulina Building.
