Child song: Mother's Day

It starts sometimes with sounds: a water sound -- rubbing socks on a washboard, up, down -- falls into the well of childhood, plashes, calls. And time remembered echoes, searches walls, finds silver threads to follow, hold and bring a face, a voice, a song -- its sharp edge galls pain to motion; words stumble, will not sing this awkward child song to light. Listening (trees I climbed in once looking for the sun whisper leaf shadow by moonlight; owl's wing folds under dark and --), door open I run to that light-safe kitchen where -- without choice -- I learned, and still remember, song and voice.

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