Dolly said that when she was a girl she'd liked to wake up
winter mornings and hear her father singing as he went about the house building
fires; after he was old, after he'd died, she sometimes heard his songs in
the field of Indian grass. Wind, Catherine said; and Dolly told her: But the
wind is us--it gathers and remembers all our voices, then sends them talking
and telling through the leaves and the fields--I've heard Papa clear as day.