When she was three the earth belonged to her. As she trod the ground, stones sang and the earth hummed. Who is there in the world can say that?
From the day she was born, if she fussed, was scared or bewildered her mother would bend and say, ‘tell me what bothers you. Tell me what is happening,’ then hold her hand and wait until she found the words.
Find them she did. At two she said she felt sad, at three she didn’t want to play, didn’t like pizza anymore and didn’t need to sleep. Speaking, she was heard, and knew that if the earth wobbled, a voice, her voice, could still it.
Her father was a giant. He lifted her from the earth and set her in the sky, to dance with the clouds. When she fell he caught her and she’d say, ‘more, Daddy, do it again.’
‘Don’t drop her,’ mother cautioned, but Daddy would never let that happen. Mother came to understand a giant’s arms are safe for a child with words, a child who has learned the songs of earth and sky.
I never climbed,
I was lifted, and in being lifted,
I learned to climb.