I woke up singing. It happens often enough. This morning it was a song about Baby Jesus that I made up as I went along. Don't ask me to try and recall the lyrics, but rest assured, the meter was perfect, the lines rhymed, and there was a sweet little flourish at the end that was marked by brilliance. Then I had a cup of coffee, the dream voices stopped and all was lost. Not in a sorrowful way, because the audience of one was once again soothed back into the comfort knowing she had married the right person and we could both now get on with our days.
I should add that my dialect called up visions of the hills of Kentucky. I could smell the Sassafras.
In the ways of blood I have never been yet never left.
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