Each morning, our mother raised the blinds, let the night escape the room like a dark flight of magician's doves bursting from beneath a silken scarf; shadows shied away at her touch. When we galloped into the yard, playing at wild ponies, her voice followed like the blue scent of lilacs slipping through our hair. She sang to us and showed us the making of dreams stronger than starlight, how to capture their silver spirit, to know when to cut the pattern from reality. If hail sprang into wild mazurkas on the roof and the wind played power lines into arpeggios of early evening, the kerosene lamps were lit. Hands cupped the chimney glass like white wings pressed against a fragile arc of fire. Songs flared around falling logs of thunder, dreams shook us to the heart.