“I’m staying off that dock,” she said. “Permanently.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was going gold over the hayfield and the old men were packing up their fishing poles, I walked down to the dock and sat beside my father at the end of it, my feet dangling over the brown water.
He was quiet, listening. Somewhere up in the pecan trees, a mockingbird was singing, running through its whole list: cardinal, blue jay, robin, gate squeak. Over and over.
“Your mama would’ve known every one of those songs,” he said quietly.
“I know, Daddy.”
He reached over and patted my hand, the way he always does.
“Thank you, sis,” he said. “For my ears.”
I didn’t answer. I just leaned my head against his shoulder, and we sat there together at the end of the dock in the evening light, listening to the mockingbird sing every song it knew.
He heard every single one.
