Dipper

My mother had two voices: one sent me to bed before I was sleepy, the other roamed the house at night. I’d pull a book from under my pillow, angle it into the trapezoid of hall light - Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales - and listen to the soaring keen I knew must be a violin but also knew was her night voice though I never asked, believing a thing would show itself as it truly was if you paid attention, the pot roast and vacuumed house both more and less than my mother, her night voice a mystery whose rules I obeyed or all of it would unravel, pot roast, clean house, book and light. Years later my mother’s voice travels my mind, travels the air like the Grimm’s story of the girl and the dipper that gave more and more light as she gave more and more of herself until it flew from her hands into the night and became stars.