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Nomad's Daughter
By Kim McDougall
A book, a fire, some toads and an artsy-farsty
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Description
. . . From somewhere a crying baby breaks the stillness. I've grown to like silence. My mother often said that she'd be still when she was dead and until then she'd talk all day and all night if she wanted. And she did. "You children will be the death of me! If Nanny knew the way you run wild..." or "I may be many things, but I'm no mind reader..." or "God knows, Henry, you've important things in your head..." She nattered on at my father eighteen hours a day, every now and then pausing expectantly-- we were all expectant - -waiting for my father's improbable comment. It was a relief when Mother began chattering again, her fingers busy with a rusted can opener. Silence wasn't right in our shabby camper kitchen. But it is tonight. Jack and I have a kind of unspoken pledge that I wouldn't dare break. Silence is a comfortable, acquired taste. "Where did all the toads go?" I ask later when our vigil is done and we have retreated to our dark bed.
