I see her giddy black eyes, brown mop, skinny legs, tiny hands and tiny feet—barefooted beside me, wetting herself to the legpits, screeching or silent, often too silent, wading lustily. She loved to steal apples, raspberries, strawberries, turnips, hungry from morning till night. I peeled turnips for her and we munched them on a stile, then raced one another, slithered downstream:
“There’s one, see, on that log. Be quiet!”
“I’ll get ’im.”
“No, let me. It’s my turn. He’s tiny. He’s for me.”
“Go slowly.”
A few times Becky and I rang the church bells for the sexton; together, we stole buns and cookies at home, but best of all we stole happiness, books in running brooks.
She married a seaman and lives in London: I warrant you there are eight children, a happy family—God bless t’em! I would not change the story.
Henley Street
Mother—memories of you are mostly memories of songs you used to sing when sleep was near, lovingly, patiently, sung in my room, close to the varnished beams, curtains drawn, as you sat or lay beside me or rested in a nearby chair.