When my grandmother passed away, she willed to my mom her huge fortune and all her assets -properties and possessions- which included a 196 collection of paintings by Mary Cassatt, Degas, Monet, Childe Hassam, John Singer Sargent, and even one masterpiece by El Greco.

But everything paled in value compared to "Sin" (short for Sinatra) --her singing canary.

Both mom and dad were greatly pleased with Gramma's money, art, properties, and investment portfolios, but less so with inheriting a bird.When my grandmother passed away, she willed to my mom her huge fortune and all her assets -properties and possessions- which included a 196 collection of paintings by Mary Cassatt, Degas, Monet, Childe Hassam, John Singer Sargent, and even one masterpiece by El Greco.

But everything paled in value compared to Sin (short for Sinatra) --her singing canary.

Both mom and dad were greatly pleased with Gramma's money, art, properties, and investment portfolios, but less so with inheriting a bird.

After some initial grumblings, my father began to tend to Sin, and in a short time he took over the chores of cleaning the cage, changing the water, the feed and overall general care. Dad holds a high level political job and he travels a lot. I suppose it's safe to say that he is a celebrity of sorts, since I always see his picture in newspapers, TV, and the Web.

"Ah, the joy of sin," dad would say (echoing Gramma's expression) after Sin went into one of his melodic warbles.

Whenever dad was home, every time dad unlatched the cage, within seconds, the wise canary would nudge the door open and fly out. For some reason -and it could be dad's bald spot- Sin, after fluttering around the living room, would always land on top of dad's head. Before long I could see that dad and Sin had bonded in such a warm way that was alien to me, for dad by nature was cool (if not cold) to all, including mom and me. While I was away in boarding school, things started to go wrong with my parents, as I soon found out during my weekends and holidays. A tense life it was.

Then one day a reckoning of sorts erupted; both mom and dad out of control and without any pretense anymore, they both hurled insults at each other.

It was ugly.

Moments later, after the fight (for their squabbles had become open fights), Ula-our trusted cleaning lady of many years-asked me in halting English if she had done something wrong. "Missy mad-me?" "No, Ula." "Mister mad-me?" "Nein, Ula. Macht du keine sorge," I would reply-with some effort-recalling the few soothing phrases of German that lay dormant in my brain. Despite my assurances, Ula moved around the apartment, gaze fixed to the floor, hands wringing, feet skittering as silent as a ghost, fearful to make noise, her eyes filled with tears. Suddenly, the apartment seemed cold and empty, as if a gust of evil wind had swept out the remnants of a fragile illusory love. I told what had happened to Mim, my childhood sweetheart. When Mim and I were growing up, Ula spoke to us in German and French; and while I have no talent for foreign languages, Mim grew up speaking and mastering English, French, and German.

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