Tonight my daughter and I drove down a street in our town where a small bog has developed on a rare patch of spare land. The weather is warm -- the first warm day in two weeks -- and the bog is alive with the sounds of crickets, and frogs, and other creatures of the night.
We roll down the windows and slow to a crawl, my eyes peeled to the rear view mirror. We'll move when a vehicle approaches from behind. In the meantime, we soak in the sound. "Listen," I tell her. "Listen and memorize it. I'm so afraid you're going to be trying to explain this sound to your children and your grandchildren."
My daughter doesn't say a word. She just listens. To the sounds, I hope. She is tired of listening to me -- I have become the voice of sadness, and of loss, and of fear. I can keep the tears from coming if I make light. "Well, you have those CDs," I say to my daughter. "You know, the ones with the night sounds, and the one with the dolphins."
"Yeah, I still have those, Mom, don't worry," she says.
Car lights reflect off the mirror and I press the gas pedal, and we drive away from the sounds in the bog. The tears form pools in my eyes and I feel like my heart is going to break.
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