I begin to sing. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep, hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the songs my father taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little music in my life since. What’s amazing is how clearly I remember them. The tunes, the lyrics. My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms to something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent.