It was strange. The words came to me as clearly as if my father said them; and I could hear not only his voice, but also the swelling of the crickets, and the shifting of leaves. It was a bright day. The mountain laurel was in bloom, and its’ sweet smell permeated the air. The birds sang at our old, sodden, dilapidated house in the mountains, where my father sang as well; on that lovely day.

And this is what he sang, as he held me in his arms:

“Who knows how long I’ve loved you;

You know I love you still;

Will I wait a lonely lifetime?

If you want me to,

I will.”