It was a wonder I heard her at all, what with the swing’s rusty chains begging for a squirt from Papa’s oilcan. I knew Tweaker held me in high regard, but ’twas my lap she liked most—especially when it rocked like a cradle. Lithesome being her middle name, she sprang from the floor and landed atop my muslin skirt, dainty paws denting not a pinch of fabric. I squeezed her to my chest before she could crawl into a tight ball of drowsiness. She didn’t seem to mind that I had foiled her plans. Her sandpaper tongue willingly licked my nose while her pale-gray whiskers kissed my cheeks. Poor baby. Had she known that a fast-moving cyclone was about to hit the porch, she would have vaulted from my arms and run for the hills. It sounded like a good idea to me. A breeze carried his winsome tune to my ears moments before I spied him sauntering up the road. I had heard this song before, on a night filled with starlight and soft whispers from the man who had encircled me in his arms. The hauntingly beautiful melody stayed with me, humming from my lips at the oddest times: while soaking in the tub, hanging clothes on the line, peeling carrots at the kitchen sink.
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