That night, on the porch alone with Mother and Father, I inquired into something that still was not clear.
“But how can you tell which things are wicked? And which ones are wrong and which things are right?”
Father put out his hand and touched my hand. He was looking at me with a look that I knew—and his smile for me is like no other smile that I have ever known.
“Something will tell you,” he said, “always.”
“Always?” I doubted.
“Always,” he said. “There will be other voices. But if you listen, something will tell you always. And it is all you need.”
I looked at Mother. And by her nod and her quiet look I perceived that all this had been known about for a long time.
“That is why Grandma Bard is coming to live with us,” she said, “not just because we wanted her, but because—that said so.”
In us all a flower—and something saying something! And the earth flower trying to blossom.... I looked down the street: At Mr. Branchett walking in his garden, at the lights shining from windows, at the folk sauntering on the sidewalk, and toward town where the band was playing. We all knew about this together then. This was why everything was! And there were years and years to make it come true.