“Dolly said that when she was a girl she’d liked to wake up winter mornings and hear her father singing as he went about the house building fires; after he was old, after he’d died, she sometimes heard his songs in the field of Indian grass. Wind, Catherine said; and Dolly told her: But the wind is us – it gathers and remembers all our voices, then sends them talking and telling through the leaves and the fields – I’ve heard Papa clear as day. On.”
