âHey, diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon; the little dog laughed to see such sport, and the dish ran away with the spoon.â I sang, holding my baby sisterâs hand as we took a stroll through the forest. âA cow jumped over the moon?â She asks, her head tilting in confusion. I lean down to smooth her messy hair, âNo, itâs just a rhyme.â I say, âCows canât really jump over the moon.â she nods. âYes. Cows canât jump over the moon.â We walk for a while just listening to the birdsong. The golden sunbeams shining down on our faces through the canopy of leaves above. My little sister runs up to a tree, peeling the moss off of it. She holds the moss up to me. âMoss!â She exclaims proudly. âYeah, itâs moss.â I say. She holds the moss in her hands, turning it over and tossing it from hand to hand for a moment, then looks up at me again. âSissy said moss is on the north of trees.â She says matter-of-factly. âThatâs just a legend,â I tell her, âbut moss does grow on the north side more often.â She tries to stick the moss back to the tree, when it doesn't work, she shoves it in her pocket. We go back to the path, walking again. We swing our arms, humming as we walk. After a while, it starts to sprinkle. âRain!â My sister says. âWe should get home soon.â I say. She nods, âIf we stay in the rain we will get all wet and have to take baths!â We walk back home, we stop on the porch to empty her pockets. She pulls out shreds of moss and grass along with some acorns and throws it up. She doesnât end up being able to throw it very high, but grass scatters in her hair. We go inside, and sit on the couch so I can get the grass out of her hair. âDo you know the little old woman who lives in a shoe?â I ask. âShe lived in a shoe? Was the shoe very big?â She asks. âItâs a story.â I say, âWould you like me to tell it to you?â She nods. âThere was an old woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many children, she didnât know what to do. She gave them some broth without any bread; then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.â I recite. âBroth?â she asks. âItâs soup.â I say. Once I get all the grass out of her hair, mom comes to put her in a bath. I go to look out the window. The rain pours harder, making several puddles in the yard. In the flower bed, worms come up from the dirt to breathe. I watch as they wriggle through the dirt among the flowers and leaves. I hear my baby sisterâs laugh from the tub, the rain drops on the roof, my dadâs record player spinning, my other sisterâs cooing to the dogs, it all fades into a melody as I stare out the window.
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