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Show Moon - 40 wanted to steal the lambs. Only Bo-Peep's cleverness could save them, and it always did. Sometimes we heard sounds in the walls, loud scrabbling noises, thumps, and squeaks. "Rats," my mother said. "They live in the walls." I asked her, "Can they get out? Can they get in here?" She wrapped the afghan closer around me, smiled calmly, and said, "Of course not. They won't come in here." We held each other tightly and she rocked me. I am not inventing this. My mother did wrap warm things around me and tell me stories and rock me. She didn't have much to go on. She was often wrong. But there were moments like that, and they count for more than we know. They add up to how much a person gets to feel. When she was afraid, I was afraid. When she held me close to stay warm, I was warm, too. When she was sad, I rubbed away the lines between her eyebrows, and her skin came smooth again, like clean, delicate paper. When she fell asleep like this, so did I. The only problem between us was milk. I loathed milk. The little lumps of cream floating on top made the bile rise in my throat, and the taste, once I'd managed to force a swallow down, made me retch. It was a rule: I had to drink a glass of milk with every meal. This was a great trial between us, me begging not to, she insisting that I do. Sometimes I simply couldn't and I would wear her down. "Your father will make you drink your milk," she said. Before James returned from the war, Michael came for an unexpected visit. He was thinner, dark around the eyes, and heavy on his cane. He'd never |
