and father who were much, much bigger, and
powerful enough to scare away frightening things. A family of six, with a garden out in back, where giant trees held swings, and where real flowers grew--the kind that knew how to die in the fall, and how to come up again in the spring. There was a pet dog named Clover, and a cat named Calico, and a yellow bird sang in a golden cage, all day long, and everybody loved everybody, and nobody was ever whipped, spanked, yelled at, nor were any of the doors locked,
nor the draperies closed.
"Sing me a song, Cathy. I like it when you sing
me to sleep."
I held him snugly in my arms and began to sing
lyrics I had written myself to music I had heard Cory
hum over and over again . . . his own mind-music. It
was a song meant to take away from his fear of the
wind, and perhaps take from me my fears too. It was
my very first attempt to rhyme.
I hear the wind when it sweeps down from the
hill, It speaks to me, when the night is still,
It whispers in my ear,
The words I never hear,
Even when he's near.
I feel the breeze when it blows in from the s
ea, It
lifts my hair, it caresses me,
It never takes my hand,
To show it understands,
It never touches me, ten-der-ly.
Someday I know I'm gonna climb this hill, I'll find
another day,
Some other voice to say the words I've gotta hear,
If I'm to live, another year. . . .
And my little one was asleep in my arms,
breathing evenly, feeling safe. Beyond his head Chris
lay with his eyes wide open, fixed upward on the
ceiling. When my song was over, he turned his head