As the world turns white, I escape the night,
Hear my name, oh hear my name, in the morning light.
She picked up the guitar again, redid the intro, and sang through the lyrics again, her voice soft but on pitch.
Healing.
“Hey, Miss Keely.” Oliver plopped down on the sofa across from her. “What are you singing?” He held a muffin in a napkin, the crumbs spilling down his sweatshirt. His dark hair stuck up in all directions, and when he smiled, he showed a front-tooth gap.
“Just ... a song I made up.”
“My mom used to make up songs. And stories.” He drew up one knee, his sock floppy around his foot.
“She sounds amazing.”
“She’s in heaven.” He lifted a shoulder, and his mouth went up one side, wry.
“Yeah. My mom is too.”
He looked over at her, his eyes a little brighter. “Maybe they could say hi to each other. ’Cause we’re friends.”
“I’ll bet they could.” His words found a warmth inside her,and with it, her mother’s face, her voice, in prayer.“I place all my fears in your hands,mytrust is my worship. My God is able.”
What was it about this place that seemed to rouse inside Keely everything she tried so hard to dodge?
“How’s Wren today?” she asked as he got up.
He shrugged. “Still sleeping.”
The aroma of the promised pancakes rose from the kitchen. Last night, as she’d helped with the dishes, she’d listened to the workers chat—mostly about the storm, but also about community life. The livestock, and food stores, and firewood, and even an update on local news—something about a criminal being finally tried.“I heardthat Wilder is going down to testify,”Nance had said, and the name sparked something inside Keely.
But then the group had started to sing—almost as one—a hymn maybe, although she didn’t recognize it. Still, she liked it here.
Too much, maybe.
Keely stared out at the swirling snow, the day now lit with moments of sunlight fighting to burn through the gray.
Let the snowflakes fall, let them cover all,
In the quiet, your voice is my thaw.
Forever here, where the cold winds call,
Hear my name, it’s yours, through the snowfall’s thrall.
That’s for you,Mom.
“I was told to deliver these.”
Of course, Dawson looked ruggedly amazing this morning, strong shoulders under that blue flannel shirt that only brought out the blue of his eyes. He still hadn’t shaved, so his stubble darkened his face, but that smile...
She looked away, at the plate of pancakes swimming in homemade maple syrup drowning a couple of browned deer sausages. “Thanks.” She set down the guitar, then took the plate.
He walked over to the hearth, opened the screen, and added a couple of fresh logs. Then he picked up the poker and stirred the fire to life, the flames biting the logs, crackling.
Closing the screen, he set the poker back and turned to her.
“You don’t knowanything about me.”Her words raked up, almost shouting.
