about poetry?” I asked Byrd.
Byrd smiled and shivered. I opened the covers for her and she got in, Sophie between us. Sophie reached over and played with the ruby that hung on the gold chain around Byrd’s neck.
“Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat,” said Byrd. “That’s what Robert Frost said.”
“Ms. Minifred says that poetry shows us the world,” I said.
Byrd smiled.
“Words are uppermost in Ms. Minifred’s life,” she said.
“Do you think words have answers?” I asked.
Byrd took off her necklace and handed it to Sophie.
“La,” said Sophie happily.
She looked at it closely, turning it over and over in her hand.
“Do you?” I asked Byrd. “Think words have answers?”
“It depends on your questions,” said Byrd. “But”—she turned her head to look at me over Sophie—“you should know that there are some things for which there are no answers, no matter how beautiful the words may be.”
I stared at her.
“Sometimes poetry—words—give us a small, lovely look at ourselves,” said Byrd. “And sometimes that is enough.”
There was silence.
“Sometimes,” Byrd added in a soft voice.
“I had a dream,” I said. “You were in it.”
“A good dream?”
“No,” I said. “Sophie walked away across the icy sea and never once looked back at us.”
Byrd was quiet, and we watched Sophie open and close her small hand around the ruby. After a moment Byrd sighed.
“That’s the way it will be, Larkin,” she said.
“In the dream I called Sophie Baby. You told me to call her by her name,” I said.
“Baby,” said Sophie, putting her hand on my lips.
“Baby,” I said, smiling at her.
We lay in silence, the three of us, as the sun rose and came in through the window and over us. Outside the island glistened.
“Why didn’t Mama and Papa name the baby?” I asked.
Byrd didn’t look surprised.
“Have you asked them?”
I shook my head.
“No,” said Byrd. “For now it is too new, too close to them to talk about. They are busy trying to protect each other.”
She turned and looked at me.
“You are wondering right now who is protecting
you
, aren’t you?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. Sophie came out from under the covers.
“I never saw the baby, Byrd,” I whispered. “Not once. And he doesn’t have a name.”
“I know.” Byrd whispered too. “But that is for your mama and papa to do. You will have to find your way. Your dream is like a poem, you know. It put in words what you think about but can’t say. Maybe that’s what poems do. Maybe this is what Ms. Minifred knows.”
I looked out the window for a moment, then I turned back to Byrd.
“Byrd?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Words are not uppermost in Ms. Minifred’s life anymore.”
“Is that so?”
“Ms. Minifred and Rebel are in love. She said ‘yep’ yesterday. Just like Rebel.”
At this Byrd raised her head off the pillow.
“She said ‘yep’?”
“Yep,” I said.
Byrd began to laugh, and I laughed too. Sophie peered at us, sitting back on her heels, smiling,
“Baby,” I said. “Hello, Baby.”
The smells of coffee and toast cooking in the fireplace came up from downstairs. And Byrd and I lay in bed with the sun coming in across the quilt, watching Sophie open and close her hand over the ruby.
Open, close. Open, close. Open, close.
chapter 10
Six days of ice.
Six days of no electricity.
No school because of water leaks.
And then, suddenly, without any warning, Sophie began to speak in sentences.
We’d spent hours in front of the fireplace. We’d eaten toast cooked over the fire and soup from the soup pot, when Sophie stood up and looked at us and said, “Food not good.”
Lalo loved it. He had come over to our house, wrapped like a mummy. He wore a wool hat, wool gloves, wool-lined boots, and a great wool scarf that Byrd said could have covered his mother’sgrand piano. Mama laughed when she opened the door.
“Lalo? Are you in disguise?”
“My
Byrd smiled and shivered. I opened the covers for her and she got in, Sophie between us. Sophie reached over and played with the ruby that hung on the gold chain around Byrd’s neck.
“Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat,” said Byrd. “That’s what Robert Frost said.”
“Ms. Minifred says that poetry shows us the world,” I said.
Byrd smiled.
“Words are uppermost in Ms. Minifred’s life,” she said.
“Do you think words have answers?” I asked.
Byrd took off her necklace and handed it to Sophie.
“La,” said Sophie happily.
She looked at it closely, turning it over and over in her hand.
“Do you?” I asked Byrd. “Think words have answers?”
“It depends on your questions,” said Byrd. “But”—she turned her head to look at me over Sophie—“you should know that there are some things for which there are no answers, no matter how beautiful the words may be.”
I stared at her.
“Sometimes poetry—words—give us a small, lovely look at ourselves,” said Byrd. “And sometimes that is enough.”
There was silence.
“Sometimes,” Byrd added in a soft voice.
“I had a dream,” I said. “You were in it.”
“A good dream?”
“No,” I said. “Sophie walked away across the icy sea and never once looked back at us.”
Byrd was quiet, and we watched Sophie open and close her small hand around the ruby. After a moment Byrd sighed.
“That’s the way it will be, Larkin,” she said.
“In the dream I called Sophie Baby. You told me to call her by her name,” I said.
“Baby,” said Sophie, putting her hand on my lips.
“Baby,” I said, smiling at her.
We lay in silence, the three of us, as the sun rose and came in through the window and over us. Outside the island glistened.
“Why didn’t Mama and Papa name the baby?” I asked.
Byrd didn’t look surprised.
“Have you asked them?”
I shook my head.
“No,” said Byrd. “For now it is too new, too close to them to talk about. They are busy trying to protect each other.”
She turned and looked at me.
“You are wondering right now who is protecting
you
, aren’t you?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. Sophie came out from under the covers.
“I never saw the baby, Byrd,” I whispered. “Not once. And he doesn’t have a name.”
“I know.” Byrd whispered too. “But that is for your mama and papa to do. You will have to find your way. Your dream is like a poem, you know. It put in words what you think about but can’t say. Maybe that’s what poems do. Maybe this is what Ms. Minifred knows.”
I looked out the window for a moment, then I turned back to Byrd.
“Byrd?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Words are not uppermost in Ms. Minifred’s life anymore.”
“Is that so?”
“Ms. Minifred and Rebel are in love. She said ‘yep’ yesterday. Just like Rebel.”
At this Byrd raised her head off the pillow.
“She said ‘yep’?”
“Yep,” I said.
Byrd began to laugh, and I laughed too. Sophie peered at us, sitting back on her heels, smiling,
“Baby,” I said. “Hello, Baby.”
The smells of coffee and toast cooking in the fireplace came up from downstairs. And Byrd and I lay in bed with the sun coming in across the quilt, watching Sophie open and close her hand over the ruby.
Open, close. Open, close. Open, close.
chapter 10
Six days of ice.
Six days of no electricity.
No school because of water leaks.
And then, suddenly, without any warning, Sophie began to speak in sentences.
We’d spent hours in front of the fireplace. We’d eaten toast cooked over the fire and soup from the soup pot, when Sophie stood up and looked at us and said, “Food not good.”
Lalo loved it. He had come over to our house, wrapped like a mummy. He wore a wool hat, wool gloves, wool-lined boots, and a great wool scarf that Byrd said could have covered his mother’sgrand piano. Mama laughed when she opened the door.
“Lalo? Are you in disguise?”
“My
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