Go tell Aunt Rho-o-die
Go tell Aunt Rho-o-die
Go tell Aunt Rho-o-die
her old gray goose is dead.
The bundle of warmth fills my arms. My rocking chair moves back and forth in its soothing motion. Brushing my lips against the top of her head, I smell Johnson's baby lotion.
It died in the mill pond
Died in the mill pond
Died in the mill pond
with its feet above its head.
Her tiny hand reaches to cover my mouth. Aunt Rhodie is off limits. It's a song that belongs to another person ... another ritual. I kiss her sweet hand and obediently switch to a different lullabye. She nestles against me.
Back and forth ... back and forth ... The rocking chair pushes me toward morning, and though I try hard to hold onto the dream, my arms are empty when I wake.
It was the one she was sav-ing
The one she was sav-ing
The one she was sav-ing
