Long ago, and far away. . . a monkey danced on the mantle above the fireplace. The bitter, throat singeing aroma of Kentucky Moonshine filled the room. The man in the brown felt hat held his harmonica tightly against his lips as he coaxed the long whines and gentle refrains from the instrument he held as if she were the most beautiful woman. . . Wildwood Flower called my name.

          My belly was warm from the teaspoon of Kentucky Moon, my heart was warm from the song of the harmonica, and my eyes were filled with the dance of the monkey.

          Long ago, and far away. . . on the hearth before the fireplace sizzled sassafras sparks and hickory embers. Sweet their smell, and high above the hearth, the monkey danced with his thimble full of liquid fire now empty.

          Long ago, and far away. . .


 

          Gray is the color of my heart tonight. How I long for the scent of linden blossoms, and to watch the millions of bees worshipping her. My eyes want to see bloodroot whispering in the early morning dew. My feet want to tread where the gray fox yipped last night. I want to gently flip the seedlings from the coltsfoot growing by the creek in the sycamore hollow. I want to sit in the fork of the great tulip poplar where the owls hide. I long to watch the purple violets creating a patchwork quilt in my back yard. I hope for the sweet melody of a cardinal singing just for me.
 

          The oak leaves lay above him, masking his smell to all but himself, and the red fox squirrel to whom he owed no thanks for placing him here. He thought, How many years have I been in this hole? The first months passed so quickly, and with the time, the bitterness in my heart began to fade.

          All winter long I could smell last year's red cedar berries, and hear a moan of song among her tangled boughs as I lay here becoming bittersweet. My mother said it was in my heart, that thing called sweetness. . .

          One day, when spring whispers urgently to me, I will awaken to sweetness. I will lift my head above the warm brown earth and run in the wind with the redbud seedlings. . .
 

          As I looked outside my window yesterday morning, cold hands slithered through the cracks between the glass and the frame trying to pinch my face. Beyond the window, a male cardinal perched precariously on a stalk of browned orchard grass. Under his sharp redness, the stalk had assumed the shape of a semi-circle. Quickly, he snatched a seed from the plant beside him, and the needle he was riding on snapped back and forth. I could almost hear a twang in the air. Meanwhile, a blue jay ruffled a pile of abandoned leaves back and forth, hoping for that last morsel of dog food I had thrown out yesterday. The crazy chicken. . . Yes, she's still alive. . . made her presence known by pecking a couple of orphan cats I have recently inherited. That's funny to see. The cats are bigger than the chicken. . . but Mama has raised them right, and began pecking them at an early age. A light feathering of snow began to fall as I closed the window curtain. . .
 

          Old friends never fade away, they come and go like an Appalossa nuzzling winter sumac berries, there one moment, gone the next. . . Returning when you least expect them, always in your memory, treasured as if they were a jade marble unearthed. . . old friends are like springtime amidst the sweet scent of dogwood trees.
 

          I have touched the face of my daughter, felt her kiss upon my face and seen the love in her eyes. My heart is full on this day, although a part of it is now in the hands of my daughter, walking beside her wherever she may walk.
 

         Well, here I am in Manila. A great longing has been replaced in my heart by a great happiness. I have seen the face of my daughter, I have seen her heart, I have yet to decide which one is more beautiful. On this day she sits besides me, right now I can reach out my hand and touch her face and I'm doing just that. I feel as if a great burden has been lifted from my mind, all I have to do to be certain of this is to look at my daughter's eyes. When I do this, I understand many things I did not understand before. I know each word she has spoken to me is true, the doubt in my heart has died...
 

          If I saw her smile, would I smell the sweet, crinkle of wild ginger, or the orchid's heaven? Would I taste cinnamon on my lips, or today's unearthed root of sassafras if I looked into her eyes? Would the white blush upon the blue juniper berry call my name if I saw her smile?
 

          Last night I decided to become a member of The Appalachian Writer's Association. Although, I am in the main uneducated, I have a feeling in my heart that my work might stand up by itself. A step to the right. . . hopefully.
 

          Tonight my feet clutch the branch of the redbud tree tightly. Will I release the branch?